A dream of a past long gone and dead
Dreams are fickle, they elude us. Once we dream, they are gone, and regardless of all our attempts to pick the dream where we have left it or to dream it again, all we do is to remember, and we add or take a few things from the original experience until it is nothing like it was; it is a memory made again, a memory of nothing. No more a dream than a fantasy. I don´t know why I woke up thinking of you. I was in this park or garden; the day was grey and the grass was neatly cut, like a football pitch I suppose, there were gentle slopes and happy flats, and small ponds, and these small squat trees, of a green that I can´t quite say was dark or if the dark hue was lent by the grey sky. There was this mother and son, and they looked very much alike, they even dressed like each other: auburn hair, very fair skin and fine pointy features, plain and slightly chinless. The boy stared at what seemed nowhere and the mother stared at the boy. Neither talked to me or seemed t...