Today has played out like the dream I had last night. Nothing went right. It was about school. There was always the dinner break misery of the playground bullies casting a shadow over the brutalistic, grey structure of the Science building and getting a victory only good for themselves. As the victim my body shrank inside itself. A justness wasn't to be seen anywhere and it made me feel useless. Only the pervading memory of the Science building being destroyed made it all shimmy with some hope.
The flow of people setting down an agenda would compare this with the regime of Muammar Gaddafi. But it's fuzzy, like a dream. Anyone in a dream who is a protagonist doesn't have a face. They're a ghost of your past terrorising your present and your future. The problem is that everyone has ghosts and they stalk us all.
Gaddafi's image was part of my childhood. He was implicated heavily in an event which happened when i was eight years old. i didn't know about the politics behind a destroyed Pan Am jetliner, I only saw the wreck of it. Like an eight year old today the same image of a dead body jostled and made into a macabre trophy, but bullies who wrecked my dream last night would have the same effect.
Muammar, your images have been more important and lingering to an eight year old from the 1980s than to someone of the same age listening to a transistor radio today hearing the buzz of nothing.
Hope can die on a playground, set against the worst scenario only the dream could muster. But forever blessed will be our strangest of idols.
RIP
The flow of people setting down an agenda would compare this with the regime of Muammar Gaddafi. But it's fuzzy, like a dream. Anyone in a dream who is a protagonist doesn't have a face. They're a ghost of your past terrorising your present and your future. The problem is that everyone has ghosts and they stalk us all.
Gaddafi's image was part of my childhood. He was implicated heavily in an event which happened when i was eight years old. i didn't know about the politics behind a destroyed Pan Am jetliner, I only saw the wreck of it. Like an eight year old today the same image of a dead body jostled and made into a macabre trophy, but bullies who wrecked my dream last night would have the same effect.
Muammar, your images have been more important and lingering to an eight year old from the 1980s than to someone of the same age listening to a transistor radio today hearing the buzz of nothing.
Hope can die on a playground, set against the worst scenario only the dream could muster. But forever blessed will be our strangest of idols.
RIP
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