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Dream Girl

She came to me in a dream last night. This time I was in a sparsely planted garden that reeked of nostalgia. I heard her giggling first, light and floating, inviting me to her with the promise of more. She wore an otherworldly scent, flowery and pungent, earthen and natural. In my peripherals, a solitary green eye appeared through a crack in the foliage. Within that eye was innocence, intoxicating, passionate infatuation, and the promise of a future I could dedicate myself to, an idyllic vision I would gladly submit myself to the pursuit and eventual realization of. "Come here baby!", she squeals, disappearing from the slit in my dense green prison. "Wait!", I shout, but her name falls from my mouth before my tongue can begin tracing the syllables. Ive known her for 10 years, yet Ive never learned her name. As she flees, I have the chance to breathe her in fully. She wears a scanty white sundress, long, sun kissed legs billowing out seductively and deliciously beneath it. Her figure is curvaceous yet athletic, a Valkyrie or Amazon, primed for all forms of exertion, physical or otherwise. Long brown hair falls tastefully from the crown of her head in thick strands that act as a magnet for the sunlight, giving her the appearance of an Angel, my Angel. Ah, but the coup de grace hasnt yet emerged. Since I was 14, the dream has ended the same. There have been details that have acted as variables of course. The words she speaks, the fabric and coloring of her dress, the style of her hair, bouncing curls or ramrod straight. But her face is never the same. Its constantly shifting, evolving, reinventing itself. Shes been every nationality and race you can imagine, and tonight shes Grecian. High, statuesque cheekbones remain in place perfectly as her rosy cheeks rise up in a tender smile. "Come find me!", she shouts, challening and enrapturing me even further. She disappears around the corner, and I wake up.

And so goes the midnight reverie that has tortured me for the past decade. It makes me feel old just writing that. We all have our dream girl, and this happens to be mine, literally. This phantom beauty has beguiled and bewitched me sporadically on nights of deep, penetrating self doubt and on evenings of pleasure and ebullience. She's the ephemeral ideal I hold all serious girlfriends up to. Rest assured, Im not holding out for an imaginary woman with a chameleon face. She merely forms my personification of feminine perfection, and, whether consciously or unconsciously, Ive compared every girl to her before Ive ever uttered those three binding words. Shes captured my heart unwittingly, jostled for a place within it, and exposed my sinful nature to me. But, alas, she remains unreachable. I owe her random appearances to my romantic, literary imagination and emotional nature. If anything, shes a character to flesh out and breathe life into like any other line of prose or stanza of poetry. What sets this particular piece apart is that it deals with the woman Ill someday marry and have a family with. As dautingly terrifying as that commitment is to me, its one I ultimately want, one that I hope my life's story culminates in, rather than eternal bachelorhood and a notch count marked by illicit encounters and entertaining stories. These realizations and epiphanies, while painstakingly obvious to some, were no less then earth shatteringly jarring when they struck me. The most humbling, as well as most important, was the arrival of the knowledge that a woman like this wouldnt just fall in my lap, and if I wanted the best, I would have to mold myself into what the best is attracted to. Nearly 7 years later, Id like to think Ive done a good job. In the seduction community, a mans ideal woman is called, somewhat bitterly, a unicorn. That particular fairy tale is of course renowned for its beauty and ellusiveness. So it is how some see life and love, a myopic, solipsistic view marred by disgust and distaste. I feel pity, sympathy and genuine revulsion for these men. Misanthropy is palpable, understandable and expected when applied to the world at large, but to a woman youve never met? Ill never win Feminist of the Year, but true misogynists are some of the most disgusting, reprehensible people we have the misfortune of sharing this world with. So, I wont allow my dreams to be jarred by the weakness of others. Ill find my unicorn someday, and, as always, Ill enjoy the process of searching. These fields are opulent and fertile. Just please baby, I beg of you, dont take too long.

As I lay by the relaxing bonfire my heart keeps perpetually going on the beaches of my soul, for the first time in awhile, the skies of my perspective are crystalline in their clarity. Rising like a pheonix from the dilapidated remnants of a failed "relationship", I looked harshly and realistically in the mirror. After the tear stricken eyes glaring back at me ceased firing bullets ocularly, I realized some serious self-analysis was in order. I stared my demons down intently, feverishly shouting my rebellion and putting every ounce of strength I had into subduing them. Loneliness, that shadowy revenant that hung over me like a cloak, the one that only feminine hands could rip from me, was cast aside, and I allowed my bare torso to bask in the illumination of independence. A key tenet of Nick Savoy in "Kill Beatrice", is that you must let go of your pedestalization and irrational infatuation of any one particular woman, and instead see them for who they truly are. So I did. One by one I took aim at any limiting beliefs or unrealistic idealizations that kept me anchored to past lovers. And as they fell, so did the chains on my sense of happiness and contentment. Although I still lapse into weakness occasionally and the desire for feminine companionship with meaning at times, I know not to rush it. I simply am, and in that state of minimalist existence, when my dream girl presents herself, Ill be ready. Until then, Ill spend no more morose nights mourning the past. Dawn is breaking, and her skin is kissed by that very same sun.

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