Last night, I dreamt in Arabic. I watched the story of a seven year old girl and her father. The girl sat and watched as her father slowly removed himself, his bags packed and placed in the sitting room for some weeks before they vanished altogether. She tried to travel away, on any bus that came past. But they all ended up back where she began. She tried to crawl inside her home through a tunnel to get some of her belongings that might help her on her journey, but the tunnel was too small and she was pulled out again by the feet. So she sat outside, wrapped in a quilt, watching buses carrying the people where they wanted to go.
Just found this in my drafts? I have no memory of typing this but I guess I must have in the wee hours of the morning. Anyway, it was a freaking rad dream*, much more interesting than the last dream I remember, where I spent the entire time deciding which toiletries I needed to pack for a weekend away. Yup, non-stop party time in Amy’s brain.
Clearly, the moral of this story is that when I am tired, I sound like a pretentious twat.**