You can’t do that! I cry out in fear,
watching the woman laid bare on the bed.
A blade presses gently against her arm,
trailing an invisible line across her skin.
And then once more further down,
across the thigh above the knee.
It is diseased, you say.
All between the lines you see.
There is no other way.
I cry, I fear, I panic and think
that woman will die.
For how could she not?
You listen not to me.
Your hand is steady,
you cut and reshape
the flesh that remains.
It is with great relief I see
the woman stand
alive and free of pain,
free of all that was.
So much, cut away,
she’s now no taller than a child
but still alive.
Yes, I see her walking.
Through painful loss,
and frightful aid,
a brand new life.
I am awake.
How long I have slept, I can’t tell.
Rising from bed I come to face a mirror.
Tracks across my bare skin, I see them there.
Footprints, paw prints, bird prints,
prints of unknown beasts.
With a careful finger I follow the tracks,
trying to make sense of what can not be.
More, there is more.
Pictures emerging, figures and faces,
beings of this world and the next.
I marvel at the sight.
Fading, they are fading quick.
Record them, photograph them,
commit them to memory
before they are gone.
The wilderness passes by at a slow pace, to the clop-clop-clop sound of hooves. It is not a horse I ride, not even a pony. Just a donkey, so small that my feet nearly touch the ground.
Clop-clop-clop-clop, on we go.
Something catches my eye beside the road, something moving between trees and bushes. A blurr of colour, orange or yellow, swiftly gone. To see it better I take the spyglass from my side and raise it to my eye, seeing through the tube a picture only somewhat clearer.
A tiger. Slowly stalking through the edge of the forest, slowly coming closer. I lower the glass, the animal has come close enough for me to clearly see it even without such tools. It has its eyes on me. It is coming.
Clop-clop-clop-clop I urge the donkey on along the road. We are too slow, all I can do is hope the attack never comes.
… and uniforms, we all wear them. Crisp and clean, we are to look good for the camera. Look good for the public. I have to remind myself to smile and hold my back straight, to keep pretending. My gaze flickers from one person to the next, never lingering too long on those I know to be friends. Just a little while longer must we hold it together, this act of ours. Just a little while longer.
On my right side suddenly stands a woman. I know her not by name, but that matters little. She is one of us. One who has had to give up everything, had to renounce her faith and put on a mask of uniformity, just to survive.
I see her shaking. Her lips, her arms, her entire essence, trembling. There is sweat across her brow and a look of desperation in her dark brown eyes. By my side she stands, whispering with a voice muddled by tears.
“I can’t… I can’t do this…”
The chill of danger floods me. Too many around us, there are too many.
“Please don’t go without me,” she whispers. “I… I…”
Too many watching. I lean in, lower my head by hers, face to face as were we about to kiss. Shielding her expression from being seen. My upper lip grazes against hers as I whisper.
“You can do this. Breathe. Don’t think. We won’t leave you.”
Just a little while longer.
Hurried off the bus I did, in such a rush to get to the next one that I forgot a bag on the first. Upon the realization that I had lost something I hurried back on, calling out to the driver. “Just gotta get my bag, sorry!”
Dreamwork is not static. It is a conversation and the dream itself is poetry. Part entertainment, part art, part message.
The door shut behind me as I got on. The driver put the bus into gear and started going. “No wait!” I called out. “I’m getting off! Was just getting my bag!”
The first step to learning how to ‘read’ dreams is not terribly different from learning to analyze a poem. Identifying the difference between symbolism and meaningless chatter. Seeing how those symbols work together to shape contents underneath the surface.
As I shouted the bus driver turned her face towards me. She wasn’t stopping the bus. “There is a lesson for you in this,” she said. I protested as any upset passenger would. Of course I did, I could not understand. Not while still being in the dream. Almost crying with anger I turned to another passenger and complained of what was happening, telling them how unreasonable the driver was and how badly I needed to get off. The one I was speaking to showed no signs of sympathy, her face blank as that of a doll.
The fellow passenger spoke, repeating words already spoken by another: “There is a lesson in this.”
Lately I have felt that it is time I took a more serious approach to Dreamwork. It has always been a talent of mine, one that includes both precognitive and telepathic dreams, but it has generally surfaced spontaneously rather than as a result of intentional practice. That I believe should change. I am to learn more of how to use this talent, intentionally.
So this I wish to say, to you who might be reading: I hereby offer my services as a Dreamworker in training. Eventually I might be in such control that I might actively seek out certain Dreams in order to answer questions, but for now I only speak of interpretations. So, if you wish feedback on what message might lay within your dreams, please do not hesitate to contact me. Just send a message to firstname.lastname@example.org and I will respond as soon as I can. Anything you say is of course fully confidential.
I have not been posting often lately, but do not think I am gone. I’m here, still climbing up from this well of misery the latest failed ivf-attempt brought.
It’s silly really, how thin-skinned I get. A single word of critique or insult has me breaking down in tears. The slightest bit of stress makes my heart pound at double speed. I’m fragile, so damned fragile.
I hate being fragile.
I hate a great many things about me, really, but that’s one of the aspects that causes me the most trouble.
See now, this post wasn’t meant to be about such things, but here I am anyway. Falling right back into the well of self-pity that I detest so much.
Actually I meant to write something about faith, and of the path I am called to walk down. I meant to tell you more of She that is the Night Sky, of what She has taught me, of what I see in Her. But I can’t. As I sit down by the computer to write I feel it with overwhelming clarity: This I am not to speak of. You learn it yourself, or you don’t.
It’s surprisingly difficult not to speak of. I suppose there is still a childish part of me that wants to run up to mum and shout “look what I found!” It’s the same impulse now, only in a more adult context. Wanting to share what I’ve seen and learned.
Ghraourgh. Enough. It is time for bed, the dreams await. Good night!