Dream. Bloody
dream.
And then I
woke up and it had all been a dream.
Spherical world indeed! It was a bright, fine
early example of a Tuesday. I peeked out
through the curtains and there was the sky of the
morning, hanging draped over its four posts as
usual; the frayed corners flapping in the breeze
and the middle bit sagging like a big, blue,
planar banana. Leaping from the bed with
enthusiasm and rolling down the stairs, my dream
came back hard- so vivid. So much so that I fair
nearly ate some cornflakes. We talked about
it and the matter was dropped.
I evaporated
away to work on the oh-eight-thirty wind.
It was crammed and there was the normal jostling
and violence, but it got me there- and not on
time either. The winter sun shone dimly
beneath me as I danced up and down the stairs of
the vast main-site building until I reached the
door, closed it and went through.
The lady
sitting at the desk smiled at me so I smiled back
and said a cheersoaked "Hello" at her.
"They're just dumb animals, Henry" Said
George rather condescendingly, coming out of
nowhere en-route to his office. Of course.
Damn that dream! But they can look so cute
sometimes. George paused at his office door
and asked: "Can I see you in my office a
moment?" Without answering I sullenly
wandered across the lavish lemon's wool carpet of
the reception ring road.
George's
office was a sewage treatment farm in Bridport
and he offered me a cup of the local produce to
which I demurred. George was in no mood
with whom to be trifled and he came to the point
directly and with immediacy. "It just isn't
good enough, Henry!" he blasted "I want
to see you working for better pay and under
better conditions." His words stung me with
a dreadful resonance. This was the third
time this month that I had been threatened with a
pay rise. I accepted with grim optimism but
added the ultimatum that this would be the last
time.
Opening the
small revolving door by rotating it, I left
George's office and grabbed a tin of turquoise
paint from store, signing each copy of the forms
in triplicate from a safe but exciting distance.
With the paint in my hand but concurrently in the
tin, I strode purposefully down the slick-strewn
shingly shore and walked on out to sea. As
the bitterly cold water lapped around my thighs,
I crouched, leaned forward, closed half my eyes,
dived and swam for it. I swam and swam
through the calmly lashing sea and after that I
swam. I swam some more until I reached the
edge of the world and there I dangled hanging
onto the tapering edge of a wave of water, with
the handle of the tin in my mouth and my other
hand opening the tin whilst holding the brush.
The lid bounced off with a sudden boost of force
and went flipping off into the void of space.
It didn't
rain; it didn't throw down damned dark miserable
dreary rain- the weather of my dreams. And
people weren't all either suspicious or on the
make. And there was space.
Still
clutching my chosen edge of the water I set about
the mundane daily grind of painting more sea into
existence in my capacity as earth extender grade
II. I painted and painted, concentrating
enormously and trying to keep within the lines as
they buffeted and crackled. I was reminded
of the mythical Forth bridge from my dream; how
odd that was. Pleased with my handiwork, I
poked my head in and gazed further into my
emerging ocean. I saw the turquoise
stretching on ad infinitem and the pink coral on
the seabed and the pink bit of water from that
day I had my hangover and picked up the wrong pot
by mistake. I forgot my brain that day or
it was eaten by wolves, or something.
At thirteen
hundred, I sat on a passing fish while my lunch
ate me. Then I rested my tin on the tide
and carried on painting. Feet dangling into
the void and the sea and the sea birds skating on
the ocean floor, the rocking of the waves lulled
me into a daydream. I don't know why, but
at that point I let go. Plummeting into the
void alarmingly I read that days paper.
And then I
woke up and it had all been a dream. It was
Tuesday. I rubbed my eyes red and screamed
the wildest of profanities at the quiet, suburban
morning air.
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