Originally posted on Tuesday, February 14, 2012
On Valentine’s day, people dream of beds of roses in pink and red, romantic walks along the beach with the a kaleidoscopic sun kissing the horizon. Of fluffy stuffed animals and hearts in all sizes.
I thought, given the bombardment of such visuals in the city where many were invented, I might dream of the same.
I was wrong. This Valentines day, as I lay down to go to sleep expecting, at best a blank dreamless night and at worst a dream of subdued rose tints and the least possible bit of romance, I dreamed a dream of absolute contrast and shocking clarity. Of shades of blue and gold, wrapped in stone.
This Valentine’s day, I dreamed of Jerusalem.
I was in Jerusalem. Not sure how I got there and sure of very little else, I was in Jerusalem. In her beating heart. My subconscious exchanged the bouquets for trees, the beach for the markets and the romance for awe. For silence. Confronted with the view of what I knew was Al Aqsa. Tears I hadn’t met before greeted me at its doorstep, amidst the hushed crowds of people.
I felt it, I touched it, i saw it, i heard it. I even smelled it.
This valentine’s day, my subconscious swapped the romance and the roses for heaven on earth: I was in Jerusalem.
I would chose it a thousand times over, give up year after year of touchable roses and genuine store bought scents and aromas – for this dream to return.
For even if in my head only: I was in Jerusalem.