Very much just another blog

Snapshot of a dream. Part one.

with 2 comments

Last night I dreamed a man wrote along the length of my back. A long line of  ink sank into my skin from the base of my spine to the nape of my neck and over, curling ’round my shoulder. The ink bled into ridges, cracking out into the landscape that was not my body.  And it looked like a picture, the words he wrote and bled across me, that I could only see because it was my dream and, as such, I both saw and felt and was and wasn’t.

The words flicker as I try to remember them, change lightly and really I know I am reading not what was there, but what I hoped would be written; some answer to a question I have not yet been able to put into words.


Written by elikafm

February 3, 2010 at 11:31 pm

2 Responses

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  1. I find it interesting that no-one left a comment here… though I wonder how many wanted to? It’s almost too intensely personal to comment on!

    I have a painting by Darren Coffield (http://www.darcoff.com/) which evokes the feeling of waking from a dream, the words fleeing from your conscious mind as the cloak of sleep slips gently away. The more you look, the less you remember.

    David J Foster

    February 5, 2010 at 6:16 pm

  2. Yes. Perhaps too much. Dreams are strange, aren’t they; just traces of things that weren’t really there anyway, but made from ourselves, for ourselves. And then they float away.


    February 5, 2010 at 6:29 pm

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