When I was little, I had a recurring dream wherein I woke up to find myself alone, in darkness, and surrounded by skyscrapers made of solid gold brown shit. They were so many and so real; I couldn’t help trembling at their ominous presence.
Alas, my trembling (I figured out too late) made those ultrasensitive-to-even-the-slightest-tremor shit-towers tremble the way grandma’s multi-tiered gelatin-based cake did when I placed it on her rocking chair. Oh dear. How those behemoths jerked this way and that ala Judy Garland in Down With Love. So, down went one, a great collapse—and then another! What super thick splatter!
My mind was ablaze with fright. My legs felt like dumbbells. I was running away in vain from a raging shitsunami.
Moments before deep impact, everything froze—except for my throat, quavering in a scream, and my grumpy big brother snickering, “Na-ano ka?”
That dream never failed to wrench me out of my REM cycles when I was a kid. At 22, I still find it disturbing. Whatever was it really about? Whatever was my fright in that dream really about?
(Sigh)
I wish in that dream I knew whose shit it all was. If they were mine, I might have dealt with them the way I’ve dealt with their real counterparts for a decade and three scores now: simply matter-of-factly.
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2 comments:
i shouldn't have read this post. seriously.
and the "why" part of your comment is...?
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