Girls Night In

the blog for single, over-40 women

Where You Love Me

on March 21, 2014
Holding Hands

Image courtesy of luigi diamanti/

To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub. . . .


Ah, Shakespeare. He certainly had a way with words.

I can’t say I always understand him, but here — as far as I can tell — he’s comparing death with sleep.

Which, of course, is straight from Scripture: Jesus pointed out that someone was not dead but merely asleep at least twice.

So, conversely, maybe we die a little while we slumber?

I’m not trying to be morbid.

But I had one of those dreams this week and it got me thinking.

You know …
the kind of dream where I’m in love and it feels so right and so perfect and I can’t stop touching him.

The kind of dream where I love him and he loves me. A dream so sweet that I linger there, hovering somewhere between sleeping and waking up, for a breath of moments.

I love that place.

But I did wake up —
as I always have
— and a part of my soul hurt on the waking … just a little.

I feel I’ve lost something.
The dream doesn’t end the heartache.
In fact, it reminds me it’s there.

To sleep: perchance to dream.

Ay, there’s the rub.


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