I remember a lot of running. You’d think the way they run towards each other, desperately, madly in love would be stale, but that image made my heart beat faster so it couldn’t have been hackneyed.

The grounds are mostly gravel. The sky overhead is sometimes bright and irrelevant, sometimes as dark as charcoal. It’s a stunning contrast against the house’s white walls with the rose bushes and vines and hyacinths growing against them. Transparent silks seem to be in every corner of my mind; that’s his daily uniform – white flowing shirt over white pants, but it’s also hanging from outdoor canopies, from arches covered in roses, and wooden lattice frameworks crafted out of thick unfinished lumber, contrasting the etherealness of the house.

The entire story takes place on one property, far removed from any other people or encroaching modernity. The only homage to the industrial revolution and anything like it is a train track that traces one side of their secluded refuge. Next to this track is a bed covered in a white spread and small purple flowers. This is where they lay when they’re fighting. They lie together and wait for the thunderous roar of the train as an outward expression for what they feel themselves. Once the train comes and goes, not everything is always resolved, but at least they have something external of great magnitude to show what they can’t. They cannot speak, they can only show. Their struggles unnamed, and the source of resolutions inexplicable, these are broken, tortured people.

Despite their breathtaking surroundings, they never see anything or anyone but each other. All realities elude him, as if he can never grasp anything tangible but her silky small hands and delicate frame. And she, if she isn’t running towards him, she is standing in place, heartbroken, wondering when he would come back and everything would again be made right. It’s like separation is painfully unbearable, and reunion results in frenzied euphoria, so good it’s impossible to let go. And then decay sets in. Where it comes from, my mind cannot even fathom. Internal struggle, perhaps? It’s trying to verbalize something that cannot be verbalized. This is the nature of their existence.

Last night’s dream ends with their immortal bond. After so much running, it would only be a matter of time until they collided for good. His eyebrows furrow with pain and longing one last time, and she begins to weep. They lock in one everlasting embrace.

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Did I mention that “he” was Andy Murray?  I take this to mean he’s going to win the Australian Open.

EDIT: Andy Murray lost! It makes sense, considering his sad presence in my dream would reflect his sad day on the court.