The bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive from life is something you have earned.
No. Take the heart first. Then you don’t feel the cold so much. The pain so much. With the heart gone, there’s no reason to stay your hand. Your eyes can look on death and not tremble. It’s the heart that betrays us, makes us weep, makes us bury our friends when we should be marching ahead. It’s the heart that sickens us at night and makes us hate who we are. It’s the heart that sings old songs and brings memories of warm days.
- Don’t you pray to her?
- Sure an’ I do not. We have an arrangement you might say. I see to her, give her the proper respect and we leave each other alone. She’d be different if God hadn’t violated her.
I had never thought of the Queen of Heaven in this way.
I hadn’t either.
Opvoeden is het kind iets willen leren en daarbij rekening houden met het eigen karakter van het kind.
Klinkt simpel. Toch lukt het gelijk niet altijd goed.
I leave a lot of things unsaid, but people misinterpret my silences. Anger ensues.
Because dreams are the most chaotic, uncontrolled figments of your subconscious.
In this one, it was exactly that: chaos. I am in a large hall, sitting on a velvet red sofa, waiting. Waiting for someone. That someone turns out to be my mother and my aunt. They say something sarcastic. I can’t remember what. I barely ever remember any words spoken in dreams. I can always remember the tone; anger, joy, interest, whichever. But words? Almost never.
Anyhow, they say something sarcastic. I reply sarcastically, annoyed. They aren’t the only ones that come out of the room on my right. Hundreds of other people and the colour blue struck out; school uniforms. Then, somehow, I walk up the stairs, which are covered in a red carpet and had golden staircase railings, like a fancy hotel. I am headed for two big doors just a couple of meters farther than the last step. The scene fades, or shifts, or morphs, I don’t know. Suddenly I am on a rooftop. It’s hot and dusty, lots of yellows and browns.
Now there is chaos. Yelling, screaming, crying and shouting. People are running for their lives. The story behind it: soldiers taking down anyone who moves. It is clear: you move, you die. But people won’t stop moving. They flee, fear and instinct taking over, or maybe just stupidity. The result? Almost everyone gets shot. There’s this woman, a young woman, she has blond hair. I’m her sometimes. I feel like I’m her. She sees a boy. The boy, blond hair, dirty clothes, dirty face, doesn’t look scared. She grabs hold of him. But wait, she’s moving isn’t she? Somehow she doesn’t get shot. Hit. Beat. Punched. Gutted.
I hold the boy close to me. I clutch his face. Look him straight in the eye. I tell him not to move don’t you dare move don’t you dare do not move don’t move don’t move don’t move don’t move please don’t move. He has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. He is scared now. Out of his mind. He doesn’t move.
The scene morphs. The roof is a ballroom. Am I naked? Or is she wearing tattered clothing, faded by dust and sweat and filth? All around me, people are swirling to no music. Black suit, purple dress. Black suit, strapless dress. Red bow, golden toe. No faces. I feel so heavy, but all the same, I move. No one dances in the middle of the room, and I drag myself to the centre. I see her golden hair move. My hair. It’s more a sandy colour, like the floor. But the floor is covered in multi coloured blotches of paint, and every time I drag myself forward, I fall and splatter paint everywhere. Green, purple, blue, orange, yellow, red splashes around me as I cry out in anger. It floats into the air and then violently smashes against the floor and against the clothes of the fancy. No one notices. They continue dancing.
The scene morphs. I am back on the rooftop. But there is now a huge window where there was a balcony before. I can see the city lights. I press my hands against the window, see condensation appear: my hands are hot, veins thick and blood pumping.
The city lights fade and now the city is dead. I am sitting next to the young boy. Everything is cool and dark. I am a lifeless corps, and he holds my dead hand. He is listening to what the soldiers are telling him. I can’t remember what his face looks like. I just remember my hair was now pulled back, I wore a grey skirt, my lips were light pink and my skin was pale. I am dead. They are recruiting him, it terrifies me.
What do I make of this?