Dad shared my last post on facebook (with my permission), so now a lot of people can see just how crazy I really am! *grin*
Oh lord. I'm making myself talk more on facebook. It's one thing to be silent because one chooses to- it's another to do so out of fear. That's not freedom.
Last night I dreamed there were children playing on a woodpile. As I watched, a log on top fell down onto the little boy.
His father ambled over, but instead of picking up that log, or moving the other children who were still on the pile, he began randomly shifting the logs here and there.
As he did, the other children started to fall down into the woodpile, as gaps opened up and then were closed again by the slipping, rolling logs.
It happened all so quickly, with this kind of silent horror that just got worse and worse. Eventually, all I could see of the children were pieces of their clothing or a hand or a foot between the logs.
The little girl that I had loved the best had fallen all the way to the bottom of the pile and the entire weight of the rest of the logs was crushing her.
Then the dream changed, and I saw with relief that all the children were alive. They were all physically crippled in some way. They were subdued and quiet and tramatized.
I continue to wonder, am I dreaming about my hopes for children, or about my writing?
