Mid-Life …Part 1 …In My Own Dream
Published on HivePostify by @johnjgeddes · Sun Sep 06 2026
Is it a mid-life crisis or a mid-life awakening? ― Dan Pearce
I write poems you’ll never read and fantasize a life with you. I found a house— with a turret for me, and conservatory for you. And everything would be perfect, if we could meet, but I don’t know where or when that would be.
I shake my head sadly, crumple the note into a ball, and toss it into the fire. Another lost Friday night in a series of desolate forays into the void.
Hell, today, I turned thirty-five—Happy Birthday, Me—what will I do for the rest of my life?
I pour out the last of the Yellow Tail, toast my shadowy walls and get up and stare out the window at the rain.
She’s out there somewhere right now, waiting for me—my other half out there longing for me, and for all I know, staring into the rain.
I suppress a wry smile that slowly turns to a yawn, and find myself wending my way back to my bedroom, calling it a night at eleven o’clock.
Happy Birthday, Me.
Next day I'm back at work in my bookstore selling dreams to people lost like me.
A soft voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Have you got any other books about romance? —I’ve read all of Nicholas Sparks. I need something new.”
I look at the older woman—she’s beautiful, sophisticated and lonely—comes in every Monday looking for a fantasy to sustain her through her lunch break. She’s a lot like me.
“Have you considered reading a classic novel, Mrs. Winslow—something like Wuthering Heights?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I could wade through Victorian English—I hated Shakespeare in school.”
I smile, “that was then, this is now—you’re more mature and have more life experience—you’ll understand Bronte, and this kind of love story is exactly what you’re looking for.”
She looks at me narrowly, assessing my words, and then her face brightens. “You know, I think you’re right, Paul—I shouldn’t sell myself short—and you’ve never steered me wrong in the past.”
I fetch the novel, tuck in a complimentary bookmark and ring up the sale. “Try it for a few days—if it’s not your cup of tea, bring it back and I’ll find you something else.”
She reads the inside cover. An intense, lyrical portrayal of love—two souls whose passions entwine… “Sounds marvellous, Paul.”
She leaves with a sunny smile on her face.
It does sound marvellous, but for me, I’m beginning to lose faith.
That night I watch a film on TV—Bell, Book & Candle.
I love the plot, love Kim Novak’s purring voice and see myself like Jimmy Stewart, minus being engaged—okay, and minus the lucrative career in publishing. But basically, we’re the same—two shmucks looking for love and not finding it.
It’s raining again and I go to bed with the haunting melody of Stormy Weather playing in my head.
I have a dream. I’m at a party, which would be a first for me, since I hate that kind of shallow crud—yeah, it’s a well-rehearsed line that’s my apology for my non-existent social life.
Anyway, I’m off by myself on a balcony, staring at the rain, when I hear a girl come into the bedroom behind me. She’s crying, and sits on the edge of the bed.
I come in and do something really weird for me—I sit down beside her to comfort her. She turns her tear-stained face to me—and I kiss her.
Not a word is exchanged—but I am set afire by her lips. Her mouth tastes cold and fresh as if she just finished an icy drink—and those cold kisses totally inflame me—completely possess me.
I have no idea where we are, but everything looks so familiar. She’s whispering to me, telling her name and where she lives and all I can think about are those cold, lingering kisses—and I want to plunder her lips again.
And then, I wake up in my cold bedroom—shadowy rain trails from the light outside patterning the walls. And I am more bereft and desolate than I have ever been.
I go back to sleep and try to re-dream the dream—it’s futile. It always is. But, it was incredibly real, if only I could remember her name, or where she lives.
This goes on all night—flashes of her lovely face—tantalizing fragments of conversation—whispers filling my head, but nothing tangible I can pursue.
To be continued…
© 2026, John J Geddes. All rights reserved
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Tags: #story#fiction#crisis#choices#self-doubt#love#curangel