Thursday, June 23, 2011

Lynx and bear

In the dream there's a lynx and a bear and a tree.

The animals struggle high up in the dense green, clots of fur and blood colouring the leaf veins and oak branches. I'm observing the battle from the balcony of a very tall building, a hillbilly skyscraper towering over the godforsaken woods. It's a remote place, a site of infinite solitude and creeping sadness. The sounds of the fighting reverberate violently through my vital organs. I think about the cravings of my body, the uselessness of this womanly frame; my soft limbs going to waste, the slow decay and disintegration of my disposable breasts. Once, there was immense wetness and lovely breathing, but in the dream I have committed myself to a kind of celibacy.

The quarreling animals are interrupted by a hand a God-like hand, my hand? – and fall down, crashing heavily to the ground. Their bodies seem whole and intact, but I know they are suffering from internal bleeding. It's a horrible intuition, an unfaltering diagnosis. The animals begin to drift up the river, the female following the male. The lynx and the bear are lovers, and soon they will die.

2 comments:

  1. The sensation of violent, the emotionally thick inevitability and the narrative remind me of a very old dream of mine, one that I used to call The dream's two apes. I should consider posting it at some stage.

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