The dream that never goes away

March 5, 2015

I am old. Not just old, but so very old that my hands resemble a prune. It’s late in the afternoon. I know it as the hour of hesitation, when the birds return to roost and the light seems to vacillate between darkness and light. I am sitting in my favourite rattan chair. I am surrounded by trees….I must be in a plantation. There are a few men armed with shotguns in the far distance…they work for me. I can tell by the way they carry themselves…I must have a lot of enemies. To my side is a trusted Doberman.

But I am all alone like some desolate shark infested island smack in the middle of the infinity of the Pacific.

I feel a profound emptiness sweeping over me. It makes me cry. It’s as if I’ve just finished a journey of ten thousand miles by foot only to discover that I arrived where I have started.

Then very slowly the world goes darker and darker…till all light is extinguished.

I’ve had this reoccurring dream since the moment of childhood….I don’t quite know what it means.

It’s always the same fream

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