Nightmares
I had another bad dream last night. Not that this is unusual, in fact, it’s more the norm than the exception. Another notorious nightmare. But maybe, maybe, if I start writing them down, they’ll go away? Lessen, at least? Spare me the sadness and the strife, the tears in the darkness between sleep and wake.
I was in a street market, covered by a big white tarp, partitioned off by wares. I was going through a section I hated, because it was the animal section, and they were not kind to animals there.
As I walk through with my head down, I see a beautiful bird, white with colorful wings, out of the corner of my eye. It is flapping its wings, beak outstretched towards the sky, but he can’t fly. His feet are tied up, at the bottom of a big, glass fishbowl, filled with water. He’s not struggling for flight, he’s struggling for life.
There is a man who is in charge of this sick spectacle, and two women watch on in untroubled fascination and breathless excitement. One women wears a bright yellow kaftan, and a matching shawl pulled over her head and face. The other women is blonde and bouncy, filming with her bright and shiny iPhone.
The man brags: “These birds can hold their breath under water for two to three minutes.” And the women ooohh and aaahh, as the bird struggles more strongly, its desperation magnified by the water and distorted by the thick round bowl.
And then the bird drowns to death, weightless in its final flight, its final fight. The women clap, and the man nods emphatically, exuding pride while attempting to project humility.
I come crashing down, crying at the cruelty, can’t stand up to the crushing weight of caustic nature in the world, slowly sensing something inside of me, fly and die, too.
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