A dream
Last night I dreamt about adventures through barren, icy landscapes and sweltering, moist, tropical jungles. My father drowned in a swamp, trying to rescue me; and was eaten by crocodiles.
I sat at a bar, feeling sorry for myself, explaining to my mother how he had dissapeared and died. There was no liberating hysterics, only quiet guilt and an awful feeling of being in limbo; of realising I had not yet realised.
By night, in my room, I panicked as I tried to dress for a school reunion. No matter what clothes I wore, they seemed inappropriate; ugly. No matter how much I put on, I felt more naked. All my clothes laid hidden in suitcases I had yet to unpack. I knew I should excuse myself from such social frivolities, as I had just suffered a loss. But, ashamedly, I knew I prioritised meeting old high school enemies and friends, over mourning.
I put on one of my favourite dresses. I felt, finally, after all the struggle, that I had made myself decent. I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection; red and shining like a boiled tomato. Strands of my hair stuck down, as if with glue, by sweat which came up like glass beads all over my face.
I felt sick, I was sick.
I collapsed onto the floor, ontop of a tim tam, which broke in half. I desperately wanted to eat it. Just before I raised it to my mouth I saw that it was dried out; perhaps days - if not weeks - old.
Nothing, nothing, nothing is in my control.
(not even waking up from a nightmare)
I sat at a bar, feeling sorry for myself, explaining to my mother how he had dissapeared and died. There was no liberating hysterics, only quiet guilt and an awful feeling of being in limbo; of realising I had not yet realised.
By night, in my room, I panicked as I tried to dress for a school reunion. No matter what clothes I wore, they seemed inappropriate; ugly. No matter how much I put on, I felt more naked. All my clothes laid hidden in suitcases I had yet to unpack. I knew I should excuse myself from such social frivolities, as I had just suffered a loss. But, ashamedly, I knew I prioritised meeting old high school enemies and friends, over mourning.
I put on one of my favourite dresses. I felt, finally, after all the struggle, that I had made myself decent. I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection; red and shining like a boiled tomato. Strands of my hair stuck down, as if with glue, by sweat which came up like glass beads all over my face.
I felt sick, I was sick.
I collapsed onto the floor, ontop of a tim tam, which broke in half. I desperately wanted to eat it. Just before I raised it to my mouth I saw that it was dried out; perhaps days - if not weeks - old.
Nothing, nothing, nothing is in my control.
(not even waking up from a nightmare)