When you dream, who are you?

Are your dreams filled with the bittersweet promises of the future?
Do you dream of the daily routine, those little golden nothings, those passing hours of the clock?
Are you there, in your dream?
The you that they see, the you that you show them, is it there, in the dream?

Even though the me that they see, is the true me, it is never in my dreams.

I dream...

... and from my heart the fire rushes through my whole body, like liquid tar, making me smile.
It's that open smile, honest, pure, violent.
I get hit, I fall, I get up, I hit back.
And all evil, all pain, every little one of life's paper cut's, they just leave my body through my fists, through my punches.
I hunt, I hurt, I cut, I smile.
The world is fire, and everything second tastes of blood and ash.

When I dream, I dream of who I was.
And you?

When you dream, who are you?

It is so strange, the sun here never really sets
the light just creeps away
slowly and lazily
giving the darkness enough space
to sip into every place

Long gone are the glorious sunsets
explosions of fire and blood
golden light reflecting from the walls
that a moment ago were whitewashed
or purple paintings along the endless plains

Those sunsets live only in my dreams
memories of my birthplace
of the endless open spaces
where the death of the sun
is glorious and sudden

Lack of dust in the air
a cleaner, a purer atmosphere
the books explain it very clearly
in black and white and science

But no colors
No explosions
No gold, no blood, no imperial purple
No real sunset

Dreams of fire in a vegetable garden

Gardening.

Yes, gardening.

I actually really like it. To plant something, and take care of it, through good and bad weather, so that eventually you will harvest something or other.

Today is sunny and as dry as it will ever get in this island, and I really hate it.

It reminds me of my grandparents house, of hunting in the summer, of the smell of the heat, of things past and things gone.

Give me the shitty rain and fog that you get most days here.

But not this.

In days like this I remember too much.

I remember the fire in my lungs and the heat in my heart.

I remember hunting and being hunted, in the gone days of fire.

The taste of the chase.

Being utterly and completely alive.

The dog touches my knee, gently, with her nose, just to wake me up.

Must have been daydreaming for a big while, the sun traveled a lot, the clouds have covered the afternoon sky.

My bones hurt like the're in a vice, it will rain soon.

I smile.

A big open smile.

No need to water the vegetable garden today.

And no more dreams of fire.

Just sweet oblivion, cool and inviting.

And dinner.

I go in the house, to take a shower.

The dog follows, to eat and chew something.

The dreams of fire stay, planted in the vegetable garden.

Waiting for the rain.

To grow and be harvested.