The runner runs a further mile
Catching the last airborne kite”
Dreams are extremely exquisite, they are as mysterious as something can be, despite often refusing to give a reason of origin or descent. It’s not typical.
I wake in a bed too comfortable for it to be my room, I assume it to be a hotel, lying with someone I don’t remember anymore. I remember smoking some weed in a friend’s attic. This is exactly what I had feared I would grow up to become when I was a child. So did my mother I presume, since her repeated warnings borrow from no other memory that I have.
Both of us are awake now. There doesn’t seem to be any issues between us and so I wake up and dress myself. I walk down the lobby and pay for the hotel bill. As I walk through the door, not sure what ended up in us having sex without any sense of fear or being.
“Do you have any food to spare”, I hear something shout my way.
I look around and surprisingly it’s rather empty of any human presence.
A cat sits on the side wall, she is brown in colour which for some reason makes me think about how most of the street cats are brown since the fancy ones are taken great care of while the black ones have witches, one for each.
I am sure that it was the cat that talked though I don’t change my position and ask her if she was talking to me. She says yes.
While normally I would jump at my feet, and wouldn’t you too if you would meet a talking cat. Though I am clearly not, I remember talking through a similar incident in recent memory, it was a different cat anyways.
I buy the cat sardines and ask her if I can call her from a name. She suggests ‘Kyoto’, which i know is a Japanese city she might have a liking to. I ask Kyoto if she knows the other cat I talked to and she says she might and she might not. And I leave her be after some more talking, I tell her it might rain soon and she tells me that she has nothing to worry about, a shrine close by doesn’t mind her appearance occasionally.
I decide I’ll take a cab to home, the trip being rather short. I reach home incredibly soon. Go up to my room, undress myself, look at the marks on my back and stare at my eyes which don’t have a lot to tell a lot a lot. There is not much to reveal excluding my body, I have no soul. I am the perfect’s report. And yet I am expressionless, emotionless lacking of any kind of stimulus.
Even that doesn’t concern me as I walk into the shower, I wash every inch of body slowly, ironically with a intimate memory of last night’s memories.
The last memory that I have of today is me finding a letter up the letterbox, it’s signed by someone I have long forgotten and forbidden to enter my life.
I wake up.
I could get used to waking up every day, every morning and fly away, but I am that young flightless bird who refuses to grow those wings.
With that it forbids.