Stepping in the same river twice

I dreamed last night that I was talking to a person I’d spent some time with, long ago.  Five years at the very least.  Our conversation was warm, and I was acting in a manner that I would only affect with someone I had known from a younger age, speaking of summers past and jolly hijinks.

As we talked, I began to suspect that I’d been mistaken.  I began to suspect that he was, in fact, quite unrelated to my past acquaintance.  Much like when you spot someone in the street, move to say hello, and catch yourself just in time: I’d failed to catch myself, and he was just listening politely, waiting for a chance to correct me.

My fears grew when I thought I heard a voice call him by an unfamiliar name, and I accepted the truth of it with a sad resignation.  This wasn’t the boy I’d known.  I’d gotten them mixed up.  He’d seemed so familiar, though.  And here I was, chatting away to him, talking about things we had shared that this person (gracious though he may be) absolutely couldn’t relate to.  I felt a great sense of shame.

You were an idiot, Ryan.  Of course he’s not the same person.  How could you have thought otherwise?

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