Friday, January 14, 2005

These dreams of you

Last night I dreamed you slept with another woman.

She was older, beautiful and exotic, with a low silky voice. We showed up at her door together and she drew us in. She led you into the bedroom, and for some reason known only to the mysterious part of my psyche that invents my dreams, I was ok with it. I sat on her expensive living room sofa while she fucked you, and somehow I knew she was doing it well, doing it better than I ever could.

You emerged some time later, holding her hand. You gazed at her like a man entranced, and kissed her fingers goodbye with the same tenderness usually reserved for me. Jealousy rose like bile in my throat.

"Do you want me to paint you, darling?" she asked in a voice smooth as honey. His wordless answer was obvious. She looked at me. "Do you want to help me paint him?"

"Yes, I want to paint him, but I don't want anyone else touching him!" I said, with more sadness than venom, and a pathetic sort of desperation. I knew I couldn't stop her.

Suddenly you were naked in the living room and she had smoothed wide stripes of glistening oil paint down the deep groove of your back and over the curve of your sweet ass.

I found myself in some sort of gift shop, with people milling around; one of my ex-boyfriends was among them. There was a rectangular terracotta urn on the cash register counter. I was looking at it when my mother came over and said to me: "You are trash. You will never have anything other than trash." As fury washed over me, I noticed these same words inscribed on the urn. I picked it up, and although it was so heavy I could barely lift it, I hurled to the ground again and again until it finally broke into two pieces.

My ex-boyfriend was furious with me. He locked himself in the bathroom, which I suddenly realized was the master bedroom ensuite at my parent's house. I knocked and knocked, and he wouldn't answer. Finally he unlocked the door and I opened it. I sobbed and sobbed, and he took me in his arms and somehow we ended up lying together on my parents' bed. I told him I only broke the urn because I was mad at my mom. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry" I repeated, and although he told me he loved me, I knew from the tension in his body that I was not forgiven.


Weirdest. Dream. Ever.

Although I have a good idea what my subconcious is trying to say.


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