R.M. Dolin, January 18, 2024
I tend to dream my troubles away, even when they go off script. Last night I held you tenderly as we sat on a bench along a barren beach watching the sunset, allowing wind to calmly coalesce our many thoughts into the one I’ve lost the strength to face. My dreams don’t ask questions or constrain me to logically laid out threads of plausible outcomes. It’s there I find you, my compassionate companion capable of accepting me with all my warts, who stays even after my troubled baggage has long been exposed. I talk to God in dreams, sometimes he patiently waits for me to come to him, but more likely he finds me. He laughs at my story as I try to explain, then reminds me not to be so damn serious. He doesn’t criticize, never judges, instead, kindly challenges me with how best to resolve my troubles.
Background poem for the novel, “The Dangling Conversation.” Kyle has too much on his plate; as one world crumbles, a new uncertain world begins.
