In this dream there was a pure silence. A silence that spoke into my soul. It is simple. The dream was so simple that, in a way, it gave me comfort. When I woke up I knew. I knew that this was going to happen, some how- some day I would be sitting in this room.
Time for a taste of my Melissa truth. Some things make my palms sweaty and my insides race and force me to head for the door. Weird lighting, industrial ceilings, and banks. My dream had that feel. So, as you must know I thought about this dream the whole next day.
A mad crazed flow of my thoughts were being posted on facebook. Not only was the traffic concerning Unlocked Style, but what I should do next. My creations dancing across clothing seemed to need a permanent place in the world.
Around this time I was also finding out who my real friends were and loosely losing the trust of those I would normally trust. When it comes to any kind of paperwork or numbers it is completely alien to me. It is kind of like hearing a vaccum cleaner going off in my mind once I hear numbers.
I needed help, I needed someone I could trust with the android numbers.
Joe Clark. A name I had forgotten. A name I will not forget. He sent me a message saying that he would have a free of charge consultation. Catch? There has to be a catch! Joe had gone to school with me and we had not had any contact since then. He now owns a progressive company, doing very well for himself.
Soon we were talking on the phone with another key member of my Unlocked "Dream": Ken. Ken is a professor of stats at Notre Dame. Ken, Ken is white and I am black. You will hear more of him in the future. Ken shared the dream and wanted to protect what he saw as golden.
Even recalling this next part just sends chills racing down my arms. A meeting was set up. My dream was becoming my reality. How do I dress? Do I bring my laptop?
The thing is I must be me. How I dress is my mood ring for the day. Dress clothes make my stomach knot up like an infant's fist pounding at a mothers' stomach. An Unlocked tank was warmed by a velvet, satin trimmed wine fitted jacket. My long black hair down, not up. Even my hair wants to rebel. My decision to bring my leather bound journal instead of my ragdoll laptop was not really a decision. The journal is my extension.
Arriving at a huge building with a leather journal hugging me I was ready. Ready for something I knew would be beautiful. Up an elevator and reaching Joe's building I started to feel the lights. A red mouthed older secretary warmly greet me. Blue prints were being juggled by a man with cuff links and a mission. I sat and waited.
Seconds passed, breathe, just breathe. In slow motion the secretary said follow me. I did so. She swung open a door and said "I must apologize; the board room is the only room we have open." Looking around I saw the clone of my dream. The long table that anchored the room, the peircing light, and the chairs trimming the table. As I waited for Joe to enter I stopped breathing......... I mean is this real?
Immediately after taking his seat Joe gave me an official journal for notes. While on 3-way I started to shrink - or mentally vaccum. The numbers were as foreign to me as the large cold table inviting me into my future. Joe said a year. Stick with it this year, and you will succeed. He had other beautiful advice that I will always hold close to my heart.
My gratitude for what he did in that hour, on that day will never be expressed properly. A dream. A reality. A dream fused with reality catapulting me into my future.
Groovy Coasters
1. ceramic tiles
2. paint pens
3. felt- glue gun
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