The dream gallery

So, I’d been thinking about the topic in the last post… and had sat down on my bed with my laptop to write. I process best by writing, so it’s generally the fastest way to get something out of my head.

I was at the point that I knew where I was going with it… sometimes something that I never figure out till it’s done.. lol

But, I decided to take a nap.

This was late morning… when I’d woken up at 5 and wasn’t getting back to sleep, I decided to go ahead and get up.. because I needed to get a few last school things before it starts on tuesday, and everywhere will be crazy all weekend… so I went on a 6 am walmart run. Because with walmart, there are tons of people there at 2 am, but morning before work hours… until like 9 am or so, tends to have like nobody.

So I’d been up for about 6 hours, and decided to go with the sleepy feeling while it was there.

*

During my nap, I had this really vivid dream.

It was in an art gallery… a very large white room… with all sorts of alcoves and partial walls and pillars and such that had displays on them.

And this was supposed to be a big, exclusive, priceless artwork showing. It wasn’t like packed, but there were a lot of people…. and a feeling of anticipation.

But what was on the walls… were just these random pictures that looked like they’d been taken with a cell phone.

Just random family pics. Not anyone that I knew, but the same family was in each one. It basically looked a lot like some parent’s facebook photo album. Not anything overly artistic, just snapshots.

There were a lot of murmurings of disappointment, of confusion, among the other people who were there.

As I wander through the room, looking at these pictures on the wall all framed and lit by lights in the somewhat dim room as if they were really fancy artwork, I could overhear the artist… a woman… as she was standing towards the back of the center area, and people were talking with her.

She seemed completely baffled that they didn’t see these as being priceless photography.

As I came around the corner of one alcove near her, she was pointing out one in particular to a couple of men in fancy suits.

“This one! The essence of joy! Do you not see it?”

It was a picture of a man with no shirt on wearing a snorkel and making a stupid face.

The one next to it, closest to me, was of children playing in a backyard wading pool, and this appeared to have been taken in the same setting.

“He looks like a dork,” one of the men said bluntly.

She still seemed baffled, and hustled them off towards something else.

I wandered the rest of that alcove, and then as I turned back into the main area, I could see her in another area, a group gathered around her, still trying to make them get it… to convince them that these were really priceless treasures… and they still just weren’t getting it.

I then realized, to her, they really were… because they were hers.

Her family.

Her memories associated with each of the pics.

They were special and priceless to her because they were hers, but the rest of us were just never going to get it.

It was with that, I woke up.

*

I have totally felt for that woman.

That’s pretty much exactly how I’ve felt for the beginning parts of this.

I’m looking at this picture, and seeing happiness, because he was mine… because they have my memories attached to them… my feelings held in them.

But nobody else ever seemed to be able to see what I saw.

Some were nicer than others about it… but my gallery of grief was filled with a lot of confused mumblings.

“He’s a self-centered jerk, only looking out for his own interests, with no concern for his actions having an impact on others until after he’s already having to pay the consequences… and even then, he’s not sorry he did it, just sorry that they were hurt by it”

“He’s childish, he emotionally acts like he’s still the 16 year old kid he was before his dad died and refuses to grow up, stop being a baby, stop playing the victim card, and take responsibility over his impulsiveness and emotional outbursts and choose to be the responsible man he’s always whining about not being able to be.”

“He’s manipulative, just using you for attention, playing cruel games, and getting power over you with your heart to make up for the fact that he doesn’t feel like he has control in his life.”

And, like the dork in the snorkel… I couldn’t really say they weren’t true to an extent… but it just baffled me that looking at the same thing I was, they saw the dork and not the joy…. saw the wounds but not the tender heart…

He was mine.

He may not be now, but there’s still a rose colored glasses effect over the snapshots of memories of my sweet Prince Charming in the days that he was just that.

Nobody else will ever be able to see that for those moments. Because they are mine, not theirs.

And that’s ok.

But I’ve got to remember… that I’m not seeing objectively in my memory.

That there are always emotions clouding the vision of someone who was loved.

And someday… there will be someone else who will turn my lenses to a soft pink hue again, and again cloud my vision with emotions….

But I’ve got to remember not to judge the initial clear vision of him under the comparison to a romanticized version of the prince.

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