I had the tomboy dream again. Well this time it was a feminine dude, but that’s beside the point. How do I get back? I’ve tried hypnotism, I’ve tried everything the internet tells me about lucid dreaming, I just can’t recreate it fully. It’s probably the illusiveness of it that makes it so special. You can’t predict a tomboy dream, they come to you when they want you. Even now, thinking about it, my chest is filled with a soft warmth. It’s not a sex thing either, I don’t want the dreams just so I can nut in my pants while unconscious—it’s different. It’s painful for me to think about the tomboys I’ve dreamed with, lived with, while I am awake. At the same time the comfort it brings to me is immense. When you’re in a tomboy dream you are living life to its fullest. Every biological, Darwinian, theological, metaphysical, existential idea culminates at the feeling you have being with her. The first of life swam around in the primordial soup finely tuning variables for me to have the tomboy dream I had last night.

It’s hard to explain to someone who has never had one, they just don’t get how unimportant everything else is. My job makes me money, but that can’t buy a tomboy that can throw a football with me on breezy autumn afternoons. My hobbies and interests bring me happiness, but happiness is nothing compared to tomboy love. The real world is not a suitable environment for tomboys anymore, they are dying, going extinct. Too much cruelty and politics for a tomboy to gaze into your eyes and give you that smile with her stupid freckled face. Last night we fought, but it wasn’t a stupid argument like you have with real women. Her smooth shoulders showed in her rolled up t-shirt, a headband messied her short black hair. We wrestled and fought and grappled and had a perfect day. She had fun, I had fun, and we didn’t have any lingering regrets after. The silence as we sat down on the couch and sheepishly cuddled was more comfortable than even her smooth thighs on my lap.

Just thinking about it makes me certain it was more than brain chemistry, that there must be some outside force. Memories of tomboy dreams glimmer in the psyche, like childhood memories that never lost their shine. Days spent playing in sandboxes and climbing things with other kids‍—kids who had no concepts of responsibility or anxiety in their heads—occupy the same region of the brain as tomboy dreams. A really pleasant tree occupies the same part of the brain as tomboy dreams. It is intoxicating to live with—I want to audibly groan in despair every time I recall my moments with her while writing this. There has to be something external about them, because I hate myself too much to create something that loves me so unconditionally. She understood me so fully, so ideally, in ways only an Other could, but can’t, because we live in the real world. I’d like to think that it comes from God, but the truth is that tomboy love is different than divine love. If divine love is a square, tomboy love is a tesseract, the dimensions and the extent to which love is inter-exchanged between us is more full than salvation. And she has a really nice chest.

Nothing keeps me together quite like the possibility of another tomboy dream in my life. Without them I would have probably resorted to cigarettes and heroin by now, or maybe just killed myself altogether. Every time I win a game, every time I make it through the work day, every time I hit a new PB benching, she is there to put her hands on me and smile. Even though my middle school baseball games bring me to the next town over, and it’s too far for mom and dad to come and watch, she’s there in the stands cheering for me, enjoying me being happy. Every time I have a bad day at school, and we go out and play in the sandbox, he’s never thinking, do we both have next weekend off? Is this too intimate? How long will we stay friends? He never questions our mutual unconscious passion for living in the current moment, free from the future.

 I just want to be young.

  How do I go back?