The Pathology of Days.

the village/this afternoon

I noticed something odd this morning.

Pray tell.

My dream last night was so disturbing, so violent in fact that I am unable to write about it.

Too personal?

Certainly, and I fear that setting it down in black and white will empower, rather than diminish it.

And this is odd, how?

Usually the stuff that troubles me gets put down, aired and I live easier as a result. This would be the opposite; it would trouble me more.

It’s not Saturday.

How did you know that I was thinking about this?

I heard your mum say it.

You did?

I was there.

Impossible.

I have always been here.

Dream on Friday; tell on Saturday, it will come true be it ever so old.

It wasn’t Friday either.

I don’t trust the pathology of days.