What's in the Dream?
Three masked figures. Their masks are too big to be called masks. They don't make a picture of free-willed choice. The sacks have been rained down over their heads. Don't ask me if they are going to stand before a judge or whether they will face the guillotine straight. They are unmoving. Have they surrendered yet? I am the one dreaming, so I can't quite say. Surrender? Waiting? Choking? Pretense?
What could be it?
If you ask me, I smell death. The death of something I don't have words to state. What if it is some umbilical misery being put to sleep? I can smell the stench of family history. It fills the zone behind my nostrils, travels through to my chest. All that is caged within is stirred up in an unspoken unrest.
My heart goes out to the three of them. What is their crime? Where have they come from and where are they going?
I smell grief behind my nose, all the way down to my gut. I am dreaming, I am witnessing and I am grieving. The virulence of the unshed weight clams down upon my chest. The helplessness isn't a dream. It ties me back to long lost conversations, contemplations we did not make space for, Time curling up in a foetal position.
It is a sunny day, perhaps filled with swirling butterflies in some distant field. Over here though, it is claustrophobia at play, mingled with disbelief.
Mother, son, daughter - three masked figures (are they even breathing?), already dead or is this the moment right before they are sent to the guillotine?
What could be it?
If you ask me, I smell death. The death of something I don't have words to state. What if it is some umbilical misery being put to sleep? I can smell the stench of family history. It fills the zone behind my nostrils, travels through to my chest. All that is caged within is stirred up in an unspoken unrest.
My heart goes out to the three of them. What is their crime? Where have they come from and where are they going?
I smell grief behind my nose, all the way down to my gut. I am dreaming, I am witnessing and I am grieving. The virulence of the unshed weight clams down upon my chest. The helplessness isn't a dream. It ties me back to long lost conversations, contemplations we did not make space for, Time curling up in a foetal position.
It is a sunny day, perhaps filled with swirling butterflies in some distant field. Over here though, it is claustrophobia at play, mingled with disbelief.
Mother, son, daughter - three masked figures (are they even breathing?), already dead or is this the moment right before they are sent to the guillotine?
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