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Ian D Gilmour

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By Ian D Gilmour
Saturday, January 06, 2007

Rated "PG" by the Author.

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Just a dream dressed up a bit.

For Godís sake I only saw the title to a poem with the word Whale in it and here they are drifting past majestically in a dream vision. Their tales slowly rise out of the rolling sea and curve back to the safety of the sea without splash or panic. There are dozens of them. Their bodies never appear just the expansive tails slowly flagging a controlled might. Why are they here in a narrow strait? So dangerous for them, the bleak green hills either side trapping them into a fixed path.

I couldnít worry about them for long because they were gone before long. So too was the water. It sucked away out the heads to the distance. I knew what this meant. I started scrambling for higher ground. I came to a camp of children, all in tents or cabins. The people looking after them didnít seem to realize the danger. They were slow to get the group following up a trail through the rocky terrain to potential safety. Some were almost reluctant to come at all. By now we could see the sea flooding back into the strait violently and swelling higher towards the camp. There were gates along the path that we started to close in an attempt to slow the rising torrent.

The trial became a series of corridors that twisted and turned through doors and staircases along wall-tops and through towers. We finally came to a stop at the top of one of these towers where there was nowhere further to go. Many of those with me sat and rested against their packs but others peered over the edge and watched the rising waters. It was no longer a torrent but continued climbing the walls to our tower refuge. It was clear that there was to be no escape from the waters and our flight had just delayed our end. I looked around at the others and there was no panic on their faces just resignation. Such stoic rationalism from such young souls.

I slipped through the door in my dream that was only there for me. It took a moment to take in the new surroundings. I was in my town. My town being a mixture of the town I live in and a town I have been to frequently in dreams. I know where all the cafťís are and where all the arcades lead to. The place is packed as usual and I begin my usually walk to the favourite shops and features that only exist in this world in my sleep. As I reach an area that resembles something between a food hall and a baggage claim area I spot my old maths teacher across the crowd. I shouldnít be surprised. I saw him in reality that day and as in real life I began to dodge through the crowd hoping to avoid him. He is a sad looking soul with a bowl haircut and a small back-pack. Heís had some kind of breakdown due to the stresses of teaching and the emotional trauma of being homosexual and not approving of himself.

There is no escape of anything in a dream. He sees me and traps me in a shop with one exit. I try to look pleased to see him. He is always enthusiastic to see me. He believes we have a bond through maths but there is only pity. He asks the same questions he always asks. I tell him that I still teach. Itís a lie and I donít need to lie.

These dreams are out of control.

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