The dream took me back as dreams sometimes do
To that previous life.
The time of suits and ties and wingtip shoes
Business meeting haircuts, leather portfolios and hundred-dollar pens
It was a role I knew well but never owned.
Stolen from tv shows and business magazines.
Borrowed from those that took their rehearsals
So much more seriously than I.
I spent the night trying to find the answer
To someone else’s problems.
To prove that I belonged, that I was indeed one of them.
I needed their gratitude to affirm my value
Yet who was I?
I didn’t hear my name spoken, or any name
Was I Rachel or was I Richard?
Is he still in there? And does it really matter, if it was a dream?
Or is it simply a synapse or two that refuses to fade away?
Could it be a message fighting to surface from deep within?
To covey a meaning I cannot seem to grasp.
The question remains, will he always be there
Waiting in the darkness to poison certainty with doubt?