Dreams You Didn’t Dream pt.5 -The Trilogy
I’m pulling a “The Weeknd” with this one to highlight a subconcious landmark of my inner being. When the lights closed outside, the party raved inside.
The last time I was there, I had this intense flashback of my afterteen, university life. Everyone was trying to be someone in this large village of ours. The Piccadilly embodied this aura, almost 10 years later. I found myself surrounded by smoke, lights and wannabes when I realized I was actually there with Her. No fans, no paps, no bodyguards. She was dressed in white silk and curls. What a dream she was. No later after that, K. & G. showed up and like two Dr. Whos, grabbed me with a caught-up breath and suddenly we were walking on Cromwell Rd. Not exactly sure where we were going though, but in a mere second we went in a black tunnel with others, that ended inside a museum. Everything else was a missing memory.
Pt 5.2 - Distance Ain’t a Thing
This one was the two versions of a single situation. T. was long gone to France and I was left behind angry, with a handful of well-selected words for his ears. In the first round, deeply affected by Revenge, I was in this beautiful Hamptons home. View to the sea and a sunset to die for. All cashmere everything and an attic like a nest. When the sky was gold pink, T. appeared at my doorstep and I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t logic, it was lack of thinking when I threw myself in his arms and resided together in the attic. Bliss was ensured.
But nothing like that lasts forever, not even in dreams, so next up my subconcious landed me at the office where I found an inbox from T. He was in Peru but there was also something like a sea nearby in this super high altitude. I told him to leave me alone. That he was a despicable being and other shit like that. But he didn’t give up. Somehow his will to overcome everything that divided us, overcame the distance itself and I found myself both in Latin America and in Greece. But as I told you, this is not a happy-ending story, and our anti-hero was left alone, while I did what was right. Or so I thought.
Pt 5.3 - The Priest and the Flying Hand
Many dreams of mine are eligible candidates for a horror movie script, but this one is really something. Short but intense, the storyline was located at my grandma’s house while gandpa was seated in his usual spot and my mom and grandma were preparing things for the Priest who was coming to bless our place. It is expected to kiss his hand when he enters but that was not in my plans. Seems like he had a 6th sense or something because when he approached me, I was ready to spit out a “No thanks, I’m good” line, but didn’t make it. His face turned angry and red and he grabbed me by the neck, yelling at me that I have to respect God. Me, as a reactive child started kicking and swearing and screaming that “I’m not kissing any man’s fucking hand in this life, and sure as hell not the hand of homophobes and paedophiles”.
Then the hand snapped, man.
The Priest moved to the other corner of the room while the hand, black and embellished and with sharp, silver nails floated and pushed me to the wall. There was a weird dynamic between us, as if we were the two poles of the same magnet.
I woke up with a deep satisfaction of effective rebellion against the petty pietists.
That’s why I love napping so fucking much.
