Now that I’ve started the Friday blogging thing, I dream all my dreams on Thursday nights: food for the mind, generously provided by my subconscious.
Tonight, I’ve dreamt of gifts and of stealing. I met people that gave me gifts, whom I wanted to give something in return, but didn’t have anything appropriate. And there were people who were trying to steal things from me. I ran away from the latter, with energy and rebellion and covering them with insults, but felt frustrated for not having the right gifts for those who had been generous with me. Some of them had carefully wrapped up their presents, slipping in pictures of me as a kid, or kind thoughts written on cards.
The ripple of emotions going through my lake this week is thus summed up. That I should give, no matter what is there for me in return; give to others and to myself. Reciprocity will arise, eventually. Everyone conceals surprises and heartfelt thoughts, except for thieves. And while I’m writing this, I’ve had a sudden epiphany and recognized my inner thief: a beggar woman, drunk and dirty and crazy, trying to reach for the rucksack I keep my camera in. She is Sloth and Poverty and Lassitude. She choked her inner flower beds and lawns with filth, bad wine and torpor, and tried to drive me towards the dark forest at the end of the alley lined with trees. I know where she comes from.
Years ago, I would have dreamed of Hitler in that exact same role: a camera thief, a killer of emotion, somebody who exclaims “You’ve been rolling in muck!… You smell of garbage and grime” at each moment of joy and freedom and intense feeling, reminding me that I should “pay the bills”*. Once a powerful and merciless ruler, he’s now become an outlaw, a poverty-stricken tramp. Poor thing: in my rebellion, I haven’t fed him with anything for years.