Dream

The dream lacks detail so it’s not one the girl wants to linger in for long. She prefers the labyrinthine landcapes of the dreams she had before, their complex inexplicable plotlines, their adjusted saturation. The dreams she had before everything changed were more fantastical. Those old dreams that she mourns the loss of had posterized edges, they weren’t always pretty. Colour-drenched like old lomographic shots. There was blood, there were smells, and faint whispers had a silver bell clang to them, even silence was a streaming ribbon that was, somehow, audible, even tangible. The best dreams now were the ones she managed to muster him in.

Freud would have had a lot to say about her dreamscape architecture and its turreted buildings and its wet openmouthed caves that dripped honeydew.

She sometimes dreamed of banquets. Sometimes of death. Of words that formed in frost and yet were unreadable, Enochian maybe. She always tried to dream of him.

She has no idea who Freud was. Or what a Lomo Kompakt Automat is. She is now a stranger to the world. The world she lived in and still breathes in. She doesn't know it for what it once once.

Dream:

A spiral staircase down which a bride tumbles, her gown as white and frothy as a waterfall. Soft cakes with sharp needles baked into their centres. Discoveries of nacreous edible treasures, dabloon-like coins, saliva-white strings of jewels. Apocalyptic oceans populated by skeletal fleshless killer beasts too pared down and boney to kill again. Shadow sharks. A red smile turning slowly blue.  Ice horses grey as ghosts that breathe fire and crack a parched earth right through to its core with axe sharp silvered hooves. Static inanimate objects suddenly flushing with life, with heartbeats. Like every thing has a soul or at the very least a trapped pulse, a drum beat, a sound to be heard, a sign of unexpected life. All noise is brown. Dice falling on velvet in slow motion. Two sixes, then two sixes again and again. Unlikely luck. A girl, on a bridge, as out of place and as desolate as an abandoned shoe on a wall. Incongruously, starkly real and human – an iron railing wears a lost glove like an eyeless squid puppet. Lost copper coins become valueless on the pavement, alongside the sensuously sucked butts of gold banded cigarettes, red lipstick marks on the overall-brown paper filter, the kiss and the pleasure thrown away. Just the smokey burned memory charring the lungs of the smoker as she walks away on murderous spiked heels, her eyes a toxic sort of blue/black, contact lenses perhaps, or is she an alien?...

tbc