Last night I dreamt of a bed of flowers. (It is comforting when I have pleasant dreams, usually the content disturbs, agitates, or makes me feel conflicted, I am hoping with meditation this will go away, it really affects the quality of my sleep, sometimes I wake up feeling alarmed or unsteady or restless because of my dreams). Last night was lovely though. They were Gerbera like plants. And they could talk. There were roughly thirty of them and I found myself quite rooted, enjoying their company. And then the inevitable question. What if they die. So I asked them, how long their average lifespan was. They replied, about 20 years. I felt relieved and then asked who were the eldest amongst them. Two flowers replied, “I am 13 years old”, “and I am 15 years old.” I felt sad that they didn’t have much time but I wanted to go and play with the chickens, so politely asked them the way to the chicken coop and bid farewell. I couldn’t find the chickens though, I am afraid someone might have eaten them.

I called my brother in the morning, I love hearing his voice at the onset of a new day. Something reminded me of the book I’d read as a child, ‘The Enchanted Wood: The Magic Faraway Tree,’ Enid Blyton. And as I approach the day, carrying out chores, interacting with people, I feel rather annoyed as I watch this feeling gradually slip away. Ah well, as my favourite comedian of ALL time, Dylan Moran, once said, ““[Adulthood feels like] walking around in the desert with a bag over your head, being bumped into by people who rob you as they bore you.”

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