21 Dream).

In the dream, we’re in some crowded stadium, it seems, sitting beside the bleachers, which we’re separated from by a fence or something. In the crowd, some guy, apparently horrifically drunk, is making a scene when Kelly, the store manager at work, appears from the crowd of people and begins dealing with him in a fearless manner. We’re a short distance away, but she seems to look right towards us, so I wave, but get no response. I then feel the kind of embarrassment I typically feel when that happens.

Upon awakening and remembering the dream scene, I’m rather curious, as this is the second dream she’s featured in as of late.

When I arrive at work, I find that Kelly is there. Though I can’t be certain when, exactly, it came to my attention, shortly after clocking in I realized that she was wearing The Shirt.

That’s when shit got a little awkward.

I respect Kelly as both a boss and an individual, at least from what little I’ve discerned with respect to her personality and personal life. She’s strong with respect to character, as was expertly displayed on a video taken at our fast food joint that went viral. In dealing with an insane customer who stepped behind counter, screamed at her, even ripped her mask off her face, she remained calm and controlled.

She possesses physical strength as well, however. Steve has her on SnapChat, and he’s shown me several photos and videos she’s sent out, one of which depicted her expertly wailing her fists onto the skin of a punching bag.

She’s cross-eyed and has Crones Disease, as well as a host of other medical problems, and despite frequent sick-days in which she’s essentially incapacitated, she managed to climb up the ladder to become store manager. She’s bought a house and despite her salary struggles with her bills, but she’s been making it so far.

She has also endured a lot of pain in her life. To start with, she is a lesbian with a trans boyfriend for whom she apparently feels great love — and this despite the fact that he has frequently been verbally and physically abusive towards her. She has gone out of her way to make it work, and consistently, and so far as I know that struggle is ongoing. I will never say such a relationship is healthy, but it clearly requires a lot of willpower on her part to not only endure that emotional and physical pain but to see beyond it and strive to soar to that beyond on the wings of hope, patience, and enormous effort.

And she’s hot.

I can ignore the fact that she’s so fucking attractive most of the time, however. Until she takes off her work shirt in the summer right as her shift ends and sports her tank top, top half of her figure revealing itself, sleeves of tattoos exposed. Or until she wears that fucking shirt.

The Shirt.

Jet-black, button-down, smooth-looking, hugging her figure perfectly, almost like yoga pants for the wonderful world above the equator. Revealing yet concealing her breasts, her waist. Its painfully hot, and the effort I invest in averting my eyes whenever she wears it is almost exhausting despite the surge of energy summoned when my eyes inevitably rebel.

At one point I feared I looked at her too long and from then on tried to keep my distance from her. I’m certainly not put to make the woman uncomfortable.

I really, really need to get laid.

Hairless (11/11/21 Dream).

In the dream, I had gotten drunk and for some reason elected not only to shave my head, but shave my beard and eyebrows off as well. No stubble, either; it was a smooth shave all around.

I went to work like this, and though one person said they noticed something different about me, I don’t recall anyone else even referencing it. At some point, however, I remember seeing my face from an external vantage point as I was talking with someone and being utterly disgusted with how I looked. Pale, plastic, sickly.

When I finally woke up from the dream, I lifted my face up off the pillow and felt my eyebrows and beard.

“Thank god,” I said to myself before falling back asleep.

Melany & the Dead (10/22/21 Dream).

When my family moved to a more rural location in 1988, when I was about ten, Melany was the first friend I made at school. She lived on a dirt road just off the road we lived on, too, and I spent a lot of time over there, at her trailer, or she came over to our place, and her and I and a few other friends in the area hung out even more often during the summer.

It remained that way until high school, when things in my life became remarkably weird and I changed as a result, and in many respects. The distance between Melany and I grew, mostly because I felt she expected me to be someone that I no longer was, and honestly believed I had never truly been in the first place.

We’re Facebook friends now, both of us are in our forties, but we’re not close anymore at all, nor do I ever suspect we will ever be again. That’s one reason why the dream I had of her this morning is so curious to me.

The other is this new, recurring theme of dead people in my dream-life.

We were on a front lawn somewhere, and though I can’t be certain, it feels like the front lawn of the suburban home I lived in for the first decade of my life. From out of frame we both hear the voice of who I know to be her daughter calling, though I never saw her. She was explaining to Melany that someone was in her trailer, and when Melany asked her who, her daughter informed her it was Melany’s father.

Instantly, Melany stops doing the yardwork, or whatever it was that she was doing. Her face falls, her eyes tear up and quickly grow red. I know her immediate sadness is due to the fact that her father has been dead now for years and the mere mention of him overwhelms her with unbearable emotion.

It was as if the whole possibility that the ghost of her father hanging out in her trailer was immedeately forgotten, that the possibility that it might be true wasn’t entertained by her for as long as a milisecond, so intense were the emotions she was experiencing. She was absorbed in her grief entirely. Rather than consider that he might have actually returned, the mention of him only reminded her that he was gone, reminded her of how agonizingly much she missed him.

My heart went out to her. Impulsively, I came up to her, wrapped my arms around her, she wrapped her arms around me, and I hugged her — one of those incredibly long, deep hugs where you open up completely, where you don’t hold back, where your energy and that of the other person melds, resonates, temporarily merges into one. The hug lasts a long time, but its not awkward or uncomfortable — even when, during this period, our faces come close to each other at least twice and I fight this odd impulse to kiss her. I find this not just inappropriate but bizarre, as she is merely a friend. Even so, its quickly forgotten by me — as swiftly and mysteriously as the prospect of the ghost of her dead father waiting for her at home was evidently forgotten by the both of us.

When the hug is over, she seems disappointed with me, frustrated, even angry. She tells me that I was supposed to do more. I honestly feel confused. I ask her, “What is it you wanted me to do?”

I don’t know what happens to her after that or how our interaction ended. All I recall is that shortly thereafter I feel frustrated and depressed and I walk away, behind the house, and out into a large field behind it. With me I have my cigarettes, a lighter, and a bowl with some very loosely-packed weed in it (its just shake; essentially bottom-of-the-baggie weed dust).

Though the field looks nothing like the field that used to exist just beyond the chain-link fence of my family’s first house, in the dream, that’s exactly what it was. It looks like autumn. I remember thinking how I want to go out into the field one more time before I left, which was exactly how I felt, and what I in fact did, just before we moved from the first house in 1988.

Nearby some tall weeds, I crouch down to take a smoke — be it the weed or a cigarette, I can’t be certain, but as I crouch down and look in the direction of the house, I see my mother inthe far distance and seem to lock eyes with her, and so immediately abandon the plan anyway.

I stand up and walk further, through the field, passed the field, until I come across an open doorway to a strange, creepy building. I step inside before I really take the time to consider the idea and, with a sudden surge of anxiety, immedeately realize my mistake. I get the sense that its a huge warehouse or something, though before me is only this vacant, sort of lit hallway that leads to somewhere I can’t see.

I immedeately try and step back out of the doorway, but as I step into the frame some guy abruptly walks up to the door, gets uncomfortably close to me, seems to take something from my pocket, and walks away. Though I have no idea what he’s taken, I feel violated, afraid, and angry.

A Visit From Beyond (10/18/21 Dream).

I’m at my parent’s house in the area of the kitchen and dining room, walking around with my Aunt Betty, having what feels like an enduring and involved conversation. We must be in the kitchen, as I’m looking through the open area between the kitchen and dining room, through which I see my Uncle Fred, who’s sitting down at the kitchen table, looking away from us as he rolls his eyes. My sense is that Betty was favoring me in some way, doing something for me, and he was annoyed and perhaps jealous.

That was all I could recall of the dream, and I truly wish I had some sense of what Betty and I spoke about. I do know that it felt nice talking with her again, and she was the lively, quirky lady I remember.

Betty, my maternal grandmother’s sister, died some seven years ago, maybe longer, and Fred, my mother’s brother, has been dead for a year or two now. Both met their end in a way that utterly depressed me and further solidified my sense that there is no real justice in the universe, nor creator being. I mean, there are countless good reasons to dismiss both notions, no good arguments for them, and I had pretty much settled on that fact long before either of them died, but the deaths of both certainly provided further reinforcement.

Betty literally lived a century and until the last few months of her life she was a unique, quirky, active old woman. Then she fell and broke her hip, after which she made a much more profound however figurative descent. Her once clear and sharp mind turned against her. Suddenly she couldn’t remember her birthday and began remembering things that weren’t true, that never happened.

Fred’s descent was even harder on my mother, who in the final month or two of his life unfortunately confirmed her suspicions that he was a hoarder. He suffered anxiety attacks but insisted there was instead something physically wrong with him. He stopped bathing, stopped eating, and declined rather quickly. He, too, began remembering things that weren’t true and never happened.

I don’t fear my own death, as I don’t think life began at birth or ends when we die. We might hang around a bit, disembodued, but ultimately reincarnate. And if I’m wrong and we’re truly gone, I won’t be around for that to bother me. What does frighten me, however, is the manner in which and the circumstances under which I might die. I don’t want to lose my mind. I don’t want to suffer a slow, miserable, frightening decline. And it hurt me seeing how it ended for them both — perhaps Betty most of all, as unlike Fred, who had some control over his circumstances, Betty basically had it thrust upon her.

I toyed with the idea that perhaps they really visited me in my dream last night, though I know its most likely the usual — a symbolic letter from the unconscious aspects of my own mind. Given the similarly horrible manner in which both made their corporeal exit, perhaps it reflects fears associated with my own, eventual demise, though the content of the dream, or at least what little I recall of it, didn’t seem to suggest that beyond their presence and the aforementioned association.

After all, as I said, I truly enjoyed my conversation with Betty. I only wish I could remember what it was we spoke about.

A Collection of Mundane Dream Pieces.

In line with my typical routine, I wake up, start the coffee machine, and go to the bathroom as I check my phone. I see the face of Kelly, my store manager, on Facebook and I laugh, because I just saw her. I was confused a moment, and then I remembered the dream I’d just awakened from.

10/17/21

I had been at work, approaching the stock room, and I notice a box back there that had been there for days. I squeezed between two people, approach Kelly, who was by the dish sink, and asked her if she wanted me to throw away the box. In the process of doing so, my eyes met hers and her eyes are red, and its clear that she had been crying. I felt horrible that I hadn’t noticed and apologized profusely. I looked away a moment, and when I looked back she had taken the soap suds atop the soapy sink water and entirely covered her face with them. I laughed and patted her on the shoulder.

As of late, my dream recall has entirely sucked. If I recall anything, they are quick flashes of scenes or lone images, and most of what I recalled are things that could have just as easily happened in real life.

Early in September, I believe, I recalled a brief image of my check engine light, which has been on since shortly after acquiring the truck, suddenly went off — interesting, as typically my dreams regarding vehicles depict rather concerning scenarios. This trend appeared to have confinued, too. On the 19th, for instance, I recalled a dream scene in which I was trying to pull into the parking lot of the apartment complex, but a person was parked on the right side of the entrance, facing the road. In response, I hesitated for a moment, uncertain if I should pass and try again, but then expertly turned and pulled my car around them.

9/30/21.

I had a dream image that bothered me, even given the largely forgotten context of the dream itself. I saw a hypodermic needle, but both its precise appearance and its location perplexed and worried me. For one thing, I found it in my apartment or a similar location, not at work, where I occasionally find them in the restroom or parking lot. I hate needles and don’t do hard drugs, so finding it in this personal location bothered me a great deal, both outside and within the context of the dream. For another thing, the syringe was metallic and futuristic-looking.

10/2/21.

I left the door to my apartment open and was shocked to find nothing was stolen.

10/11/21.

I walk into a crowded bar with two people, who both sit down promptly. There was nowhere for me to sit, however, nor was anyone talking to me, so I walked away. I meandered into large, dark, vacant room in the back of the bar, looking to go out for a smoke. I never made it out there before awakening, but I heard someone on,the distance say my name to someone, clearly wondering if I was who they suspected I was.

Save for the futuristic syringe, all dream recall as of late has dealt with rather mundane circumstances — though the part about the soap suds in the dream this morning was slightly odd. Even more curious, I discovered on Facebook that today is Kelly’s birthday.

The Gray Alien Girl (8/19/21 Dream).

The dream was strangely realistic, the environment just as it would have been had it happened in waking life, and when it first came to mind upon awakening I at first, in my confused, still half-asleep mind, assumed it was an authentic memory.

I’m at work, and earlier in the dream I had seen a depiction of the face of a Gray alien somewhere. Due to that, I was surprised when, upon passing by front drive thru, I had caught a glimpse of a tattoo of Gray aliens on the arm of some new girl at work whom I’d never seen before. She was skinny with long hair. Unaware that I was in a dream, I immedeately became intrigued by what I took to be synchronicity, but being shy, I didn’t say anything to her regarding the tattoo.

Later, as I went into the front drive-thru area to get a cup of coffee, it comes to my attention that the girl’s shirt also featured Gray aliens. Standing with my back to the drive-thru window, as I got my small coffee, I laughed, looked at her, and said something like, “So what’s with you and the little guys?” As I said it, I held out my hand, indicating their short stature.

She was standing a short distance away, near the cart where we put all the sauce packets, facing me, smiling. Though I can’t recall what she said, she seemed to be dodging the subject entirely, acting cagey, but in the most polite manner conceivable. I felt saddened by this, because I was hoping she would reveal that, like me, she had actually seen them.

Dreams of Emotional Repression & Self-Neglect (8/16/21 Dream).

Though I don’t believe its either of the dogs my parents currently own, for some reason one of their dogs comes with me back to my apartment. Once we get inside, I see that my gerbil is loose, though this gerbil is actually the size and look of a chinchilla and it looks sick, weak, and dehydrated. My own dog is also there. Most disturbing is the fact that I’d forgotten I owned either of them and wondered what they’d been eating, how they were getting food and water, and where they had been pissing and shitting.

I discover I have bowls for food and water for both of them on the floor in my kitchen, and there’s even some food in one of the bowls. Feeling incredibly guilty, I decide to buy some food for them, even some treats, and get two leashes so I can regularly take them outside so they can go to the bathroom.

This notion if having pets I had forgotten about was a recurring dream theme for me some time ago, and it kind of bothers me that its cropped up again — along with the more recent theme that’s emerged, which is having a messy, packrat of an apartment (which is not the case in waking life, for the record).

As to what these dreams mean: dreams of neglecting or entirely forgetting about our pets may represent our feeling that we’re not taking on our responsibilities, most likely towards ourselves — that we’re failing to acknowledge and nurture some aspect of ourselves represented by the animals in question, in other words.

The dog may represent loyalty or companionship, the gerbil may represent overwhelming energy or hyperactivity without a clear focus. Together, they may suggest I need to commit my hyperactive mind to something; conversely, it may suggest that I need to stop taking matters into my own hands and get a girlfriend.

This may have also been reflected in another recent dream I had, specifically the one regarding the purple flood. As cars often reference motivation, garages — where we often house cars — may suggest a lack thereof. If garages are also another manifestation of the typical meaning behind attics, basements, or hidden rooms, its also a symbol of the unconscious — so my motivation is buried in the unconscious aspects of my psyche. Water also suggests emotions and the unconscious, and given that the purple water was filling up the garage and then flooding the street, this also suggests repressed emotions bound up with my repressed motivation. The fact that it appeared to be boiling in the garage may suggest frustration, or perhaps merely passionate emotions that I’m repressing.

I’m not sure why the water was purple, but the color was vivid, and something so pronounced certainly indicates something. I suppose I associate it with spirituality, though I’m uncertain how that would relate to other aspects of the dream. Last but not least the mist may suggest confusion or not being able to see something clearly, which relates to my uncertainty regarding the meaning of the purple water, if nothing else.

The dream I had recently regarding Maria Cox may also have some relevance. In that dream, the clutter in my room may have represented the disorder in my life and within myself. The birthday cake wrapped up like a birthday present that I’d forgotten about allegedly suggests a pleasant surprise (the present) and either that someone values me or I wish to befriend them (the cake). Hugging Maria suggests my desire to befriend her or a more intimate involvement, and her leather jacket may represent her power and protection — or just that I find girls in leather unbearably hot. Of course, it ends with my desire for her battling my fear, leaving me in that frustrated, uncertain state.

Though they aren’t at all alike from what I can discern, I talked to a girl I value and find myself pretty damn attracted to last night, and while its likely been as long since I’ve seen her as its been since I’ve seen Maria, I’ve actually communicated with her extensively online and really enjoy talking to her, so maybe that’s behind why my unconscious belched up this dream of instinctive neglect last night.

In closing, I must say that I love how as soon as I give up and try to hang up my hat with respect to even considering getting with a girl again, convinced it would never happen and couldn’t work, no matter how much the desire may burn in me, my brain starts poking at me. “No, no, you really need this,” it seems to be saying, albeit in symbolic code, and of course without the slightest suggestion as to how the fuck I could go about doing that.

Of the Mist & the Purple Flood (8/14/21 Dream).

I live with others in a small house along some suburban street. Its evening and I’m alone just outside the front door, eyes scanning the vacant road, and I’m growing rather curious about a strange mist lingering in the air.

As I look down to the end of the road, I come to focus on another house atop a hill, surrounded by the mist, and the garage captures my attention — specifically, the garage door. While it’s closed, it has two short and wide windows at its midsection, through which I can see that the garage is being filled up with this strange, purple-colored water. Its roughly halfway full when I see it and the water is bubbling and moving around violently. It appears to be boiling.

Soon enough, this purple water begins flooding the neighborhood. I tell my housemates about it, but no one seems to be concerned or even vaguely interested, for that matter, which confuses me.

Automotive Difficulties & Walking Reveries.

It’s all dark now, in my mind, in my soul, but that’s no surprise to me. As fucked up as it all is, I anticipated this. As fucked up as I am, believe it or not, I am painfully self-aware. The spotlight that shines on my mind is utterly agonizing, and I can only assure you. The impacts that truly prove to leave craters and crack and so provide me with enlightenment, with self-realization — they’re curious and intense, to be sure, no matter how much you might demote them once witness to their particular manifestations, but I urge you to hold your judgement…

Every time there is an issue with my vehicle, I begin to reassess my life.

After consideration, I have concluded that this is largely because since January 26, 2004, I have worked at the same fast food job and since August 1 of 2014 I have lived alone in this one-bedroom apartment some 22 miles from work, or roughly 23 minutes away, give or take — for, given these circumstances, if I no longer have a functioning vehicle, this means I have no way to work. Unless, of course:

1) I have enough money to pay for repairs,

2) I can borrow enough money from someone and am capable of paying them back,

3) someone just gives me the money for repairs, and/or

4) someone is willing to pick me up and drive me from work and back, at least until I have the money for the repairs, the repairs in question are completed, and I have a ride to the repaired vehicle.

The common denominator of all the above is having to ask for help from other people, relying on other people, being a fucking burden on other people, and as a consequence feeling indebted to other people either/both financially and/or emotionally (in the form of debt that Nietzsche — that dark, mustached genius — accurately described as guilt).

I hate debt. Not only does it fill me with obligations I’m not certain how or if I can fulfill, but in either case it makes me feel like a weak, incompetent, pathetic parasite, a creature unable to hold his own, to manage his life without assistance, implying that without life support I would have been dead, dead, deadinski long, long ago.

In other words, I hate these issues with my vehicle because it betrays a putrid and profound (and profoundly putrid) truth about myself: that when it comes down to it, I am simply not fit to make it in the world. This culture. This society. That I cannot hold my own or manage my own shit. That I am a square peg in a world of round holes. That I can never be independent, never be free, and that I only make it through this hellacious maelstrom of my existence because I am lucky enough to know so many good and empathic people that either pity me or feel for some reason as if they owe me, and so as a consequence feel at some level an obligation to rush to my aid, to rescue this incurable dumbass in eternal distress.

I survive the recurring shitstorms of my existence given my lifeline of luck. That’s how I feel: it hasn’t been earned. It makes me feel guilty so much that it kills me inside, and yet without it I would be on the streets, homeless and hungry, clueless and hopeless. I can ignore this fatal flaw for varying periods, but the spotlight inevitably shines down on it soon enough. If I’m lucky, it remains latent long enough for me to forget it is there, but this only serves to pack the destined punch, as it ultimately rises into manifestation to remind me what a lost, anxious, naïve, ignorant, helpless fuckling child I really am, despite having lived in this flesh for a little over four fucking decades. And all feeble semblance of confidence I’ve managed to conjure from the depths of my being evaporates in a mere moment.

How do I exit this circumstance?

Well, I could find a decent job I could walk to, or bicycle to if I need to. I don’t hate vehicles, but if I didn’t have to rely on one to get to the place where I have to make the money I need to make in order to survive, if I could manage to get from home to work and back again without such a vehicle so I could still pay for rent and groceries and the addictions I need to feed and the vehicle repairs that would make my life slightly easier — if I could, in other words, eliminate my reliance on my vehicle — well, that fear would be abolished. Flame of fear snuffed out. Threat eliminated. Quality of life would be more secured and my peace of mind given roots and at least the hope of blossoming into true joy.

I came across a video or two recently regarding people who traveled and lived abroad and then came back to the states, and this one girl explained how when she lived in Denmark, maybe Norway, she had a car but eventually sold it because she didn’t need it. She could just walk or ride her bicycle everywhere. Imagining myself in that circumstance, these waves of relief and pleasure and security just washed over me. I imagined how much stress would immediately be eliminated from my life, and, ignoring my loved ones for a moment, I had the sudden urge to just save up as much money as I could and buy a plane ticket and get the bloody fuck out of dodge. I felt like I could make it in such an environment. I’d always feel like the odd duck, I’d always feel like I was on the outside looking in, I’d always feel like I’m an alien and I don’t belong, sure, but I always feel that way, I’ve fucking made peace with that, it’s just a basic element of my character, no matter what the context, or so I’m convinced — but I would be so much happier, so much more at peace.

I remember words of a beautiful fucking woman I know and adore whom I call Pretty Penny, and the comedian Doug Stanhope, who echoed her — or maybe its the other way around. I don’t know, I value them both. Pretty Penny more because I know her personally, her character is insatiably alluring and she’s a sexy little beast. In any case, the insight was simple: you can always leave. Pack up your shit in a car and move away to another state. Pack up your shit in bags and flee this goddamn country. Simple as that, they both say, my two drunken wise-people upon the proverbial mountain. You’re only as trapped as you think you are. You know the earth is round, but you look at the horizon of the sector of this small fucking beautiful wad of dirt you’re trapped in as if it were flat. There are regions so far beyond, and you can live there. If you aren’t happy where you are, you do know you can just go, don’t you?

How I wish our technological evolution had already advanced to the point where wormholes, or folding space in a teleportation manner, would have not only become possible at the macro level but affordable and routine, for I’d hop to Norway in a goddamn heartbeat and come to visit those I loved frequently, but that shit just isn’t possible now. So it means that to achieve my absurd ideal I would have to find a job close to where I live that would enable me to Uber out without putting me in debt or buy a plane ticket that wouldn’t put me so far in the hole that I’d have no fucking hope of ever crawling out — or, conversely, and much more realistically, find find a place to live close to a new job and that both would have to be in close proximity to those I love.

This is far from what I’d consider utopia, but its a fucking start.

It would still be far from the sun, in other words, but at the very fucking least I could finally see our shimmering home star as it rose above our blasted horizon.

Believe in that distant star, but move towards it in (albeit intense) baby steps.

Maria Cox & The Mess (8/3/21 Dream).

I’m in my apartment when I suddenly remember my parents are coming over, and I’m incredibly embarrassed about thr state of my apartment. Panicky, even. The living room isn’t too bad, but my bedroom is a disaster, so I hoped I could just keep them in the living room.

I also suddenly remembered the birthday cake they had gotten for me last time they visited, and it was wrapped like a present in corner. I had entirely forgotten about it until that moment and feared that they’d be hurt if they saw it unwrapped and uneaten.

(In retrospect, it reminded me of the vague recollections of a dream I had yesterday, in which I was a part of a team of people in my bedroom, organizing and cleaning things, with a lot of focus on the area around my art desk.)

When my parents arrive at my door soon thereafter, there’s some commotion in the hallway. They’re distracted by something — I think they’re speaking with a neighbor and there are dogs or other animals with them.

In any case, while I know they’re there, I don’t even recall seeing them, I’m so spellbound by who they apparently brought along. Its Maria Cox, the creative and beautiful goth girl I had gone to school with and follow on Facebook. She looked alluring as fuck and we hugged. It was warm, inviting, uninhibited. In the process of hugging her, I felt the black leather jacket she was wearing, and which she looked sexy as hell in (I have something for women in leather in general). The leather felt so fucking real.

I was so excited to see her, but when I began thinking about getting to know her, of maybe even getting the opportunity to do dirty fucking things with her, my mind suddenly took a downturn.

I became embarrassed regarding everything about myself. My apartment was a mess, I was a mess. Reality would ruin this fantasy. I would ruin this fantasy. I wouldn’t be good enough. I wanted to get close to her with a burning intensity, but the anxiety built and at the same time I had the overwhelming desire to run away and hide, though it would also kill me to pass up this opportunity to get to know her and I’d never forgive myself.