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Snapshot of a dream. Part four. Final.

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I thought I had come to the end; the words have vanished from my skin and I can hear your voice and feel your arms. When I open my eyes, you’re not there and  I can see a light, like the sun but it’s just a lamp looming large and orange. It glows, urgent for a second or two and then fades. I watch it pulse: live, fade, live, fade, and I reach out to catch the spider I can see in the light but an animal has bitten my neck and somehow I have to stop the bleeding.

If I gave you the spider you will know it means I love you but the words are writing out again, blue ink staining my skin: I tried to find you. I tried to find you. I tried to find you.

I can smell you and your skin is close and your breath is on my cheek and I open my mouth to kiss you but you don’t kiss back: you whisper into my open mouth and then you are gone and I have killed the spider dead in my hand.


Written by elikafm

February 15, 2010 at 10:37 am

Snapshot of a dream. Part three.

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I have been here before: I know it. I am at the top of a wooden pathway that is suspended. Behind me there is another part of the dream that will build itself out of the ground if I go there. If I walk down I will come to a house that is made of the same wooden planks I am standing on and beyond that – something – and then a wood.

I walk down to the house. I have made this journey before; I know how the wood feels on my bare feet and the air hasn’t changed; it smells the same: clean and empty. At the house I rise onto my toes, push my chin up and try to see through the windows. They are, of course they are, caked with dust and it makes it hard to breathe as I peer in closer.

There is no one here. I am alone but not afraid. Cold but that is all. I don’t want to get in the house, I just hoped somebody would be inside. But there’s no one here and I knew that anyway. There’s no one anywhere; I could walk backwards and forwards, up and down the wooden planks, through this dream all night and I would never find anybody.

My dreams are made not just of what I find in them but in the gaps in between: the things I am always searching for, the bits I don’t understand. I return to make sense of it. And I will keep returning.

Written by elikafm

February 10, 2010 at 9:42 am

Snapshot of a dream. Part two.

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I am on a pier sitting close to the water and I think this is a river, but it’s deep so maybe it is the ocean.

It’s cold but I pull my sleeve up to see the ink crawling down my arm, long lines of words growing ’round towards my wrist: I will find you. I will find you. I will find you.

I stand and take my clothes off,  smart in the cold and then step into water where I am submerged fast, rushing down and my lungs tighten and tighten and I can’t breathe anymore or see but I am the most awake I have been in days. And the blue ink rushes ’round my body holding me in and saving me and making me gulp water until I am wide-eyed and choking and now the words are bluring but, as they do, they are written again.

And then it is quiet. Suddenly and deeply still. I realise I can breathe down here.

Written by elikafm

February 7, 2010 at 2:12 pm

Snapshot of a dream. Part one.

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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