Some weeks ago, in the quiet hours of early morning, perhaps just before I woke, I dreamed of a man. I couldn’t see him, yet I remembered him vividly as I often dream about him. His voice, though emanating from the dream realm, felt as close to me as my own thoughts.
He spoke to me with calm clarity: *”I want you to read something. If you go to *this* store it’s name doesn’t matter—you will find it there. There’s a poetry book with two specific poems I want you to read.”*
My dreams are often intricate, filled with complex plots and characters that seem to follow a linear narrative. But occasionally, I have dreams that feel alive—like fragments of a life I could be living, parallel to my waking one. This was one of those dreams.
I felt an inexplicable familiarity with this man, even though all I had was his voice. It resonated in a way that made me trust him as if I had known him forever.
Needless to say, my curiosity was piqued. *Would I find this poetry book?* The store he mentioned seemed like an odd choice—not a library or a bookstore, but somewhere unlikely for poetry. Still, I felt compelled to follow this dream.
Several days passed and there I was, taking quick steps toward the store. I felt a peculiar emotion swelling in my chest—a mix of curiosity and quiet anticipation. It seemed so unlikely, almost absurd, to find a poetry book there.
I know the store’s offerings: a handful of lifestyle books, maybe a few contemporary novels, but hardly a literary haven. Their book selection felt more like an afterthought, overshadowed by racks of apparel and other miscellaneous goods. Yet, as I wandered through the aisles, there it was: *Greatest Works of Edgar Allan Poe*
My heart skipped slightly as I picked it up.
“Oh dear, The Raven,” I murmured to myself, half in awe and half stunned at the unexpected find.
On the back, a part of a poem can be found; I always thought it was a mix of sadness and romantic, long-lasting love, “Annabel Lee”.
Anyone familiar with Edgar Allan Poe knows that his greatest works are deeply rooted in themes of sorrow, grief, and profound loss.
They possess a beauty that is both haunting and painful, and reading them stirred a deep ache within me. Yet, they also served as a poignant reminder that true love is an eternal force—one that transcends time, constantly renews itself, and remains unshaken by human flaws or the fleeting illusions of this world. It needs not to search and find us, as it is always there. In dreams, in soul, in mind.
THE WONDERMIND 