Sunday, April 20, 2008

There were dead children throughout my dream. A grand party at my brother’s house interstate or was it my friend Ann’s, because they were Ann’s children. She had sixteen of them and slowly one after the other they fell ill. But no one called the doctor. Instead the children lay down on the kitchen floor and people walked beside them, stepped over them as though they were bits of furniture and the children’s skin lost it’s pinkness and turned to a sickly grey colour and soon enough their chests stopped heaving with the effort to breathe and they were dead. We knew they were dead but no one grieved or shed a tear. No one commented on the sadness of it all, the party continued and other children played on around the two dead ones. People ate and drank. I was upset because I sensed there was no room for me. The place was so crowded with friends of my brother’s children. They came in droves. They took liberties in my brother’s house. They borrowed his expensive cars without asking him and there was nowhere that I could settle down. I wanted to watch a movie of some tourist island that I had down loaded into a special mechanism on my neck, a holiday island. Maybe that’s what I’m desperate for some holiday place away from all this rancour. I long for it.

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