I had yet another one of my vivid dreams again.
People involved aside, one image stood out in my mind from the entire dream (and it did feel like it lasted quite a long time). It was a bridge.
Well, it wasn’t a bridge per se, seeing as it didn’t connect to some other side. No, it hung in mid-air, high above the ground, as if the bridge itself couldn’t decide – couldn’t remember – whether it was decomposition or some unfortunate accident that had left it in this state.
I can still see it now; it was at eye-level (I was standing on an adjacent pathway of sorts), and its architecture stood out amongst the lush forests behind it. It hazily resembled one of the bridges over some canal in Venice, but yet I couldn’t really say for sure. It had white Victorian-esque columns as part of the railing, and it was paved with terracotta tiles. Of course, the white was more of a memory rather than an outright statement of its appearance. The columns were vaguely stained with an algae that had developed over an indeterminate period of time, and I seem to recall creepers or vines wrapping themselves longingly around these man-made surfaces, plus a hint of blossoms here and there.
Despite its apparent nostalgia, I couldn’t help but be filled with some mix of acrophobic dread and the sadness of discontinuity. I imagined myself standing on the edge of crumbling brick and staring out into the void. But maybe what affected me most was how far the other end of the bridge stretched. I saw similar structures peek out of the trees as I looked beyond this floating comma, and realised how much of it had been built before it just… stopped.
At the very least, I didn’t wake up missing you like I used to do. Somehow, within these short months, I stopped thinking of and hoping for the “course-we-had-not-run”.
All that I felt was the profound sensation of having nothing left to say.