I had a napping dream. One of those curious lingerers...
I was just watching overhead;
A filthy broken angular mosaic of a flat in Bristol. Ecru and yellowy.
Ignoring his sister's primping at the sink,
he was at the kitchen table pattering about singing.
Precious looking boy in a fern pattern T-shirt, scooped necked, stretched out short sleeves.
I think maybe 6 years old. Pasty skin and choppy hair.Dimpled elbows just chubby enough
where I could tell he is fed, but a little too much. With a munchkin English accent, there he was,
softly chit-chat sing-songing an in the moment commentary of his actions and thoughts
as his small sausage fingers went about,
from time to time,
click clacking on a lap top.
His thoughts, I saw. He imagined a news reel of bloody soldiers.
If I knew how to write music I would write his bars. The last two lines he sang were very creepy and are looping in my head.
He asked,
"What comes is it that war,(...pause...) Google Plus,
Why happened to that war, (...pause...) Google Plus,"
the 'plus' ending on a happy-go-lucky higher note...
Going about his business sweetly trying to learn on his own and filling in the blanks as he saw fit.
It was, to me, as dreams seem so real, a disturbing example of make-believe gone really awry. The beginnings of what would become a coping mechanism of habitually manipulative self-reality denial.
I was filled with a little desperation and sadness, I wanted so badly to help him with his sentence structure.
I wished his questions made sense to him.
I was just watching overhead;
A filthy broken angular mosaic of a flat in Bristol. Ecru and yellowy.
Ignoring his sister's primping at the sink,
he was at the kitchen table pattering about singing.
Precious looking boy in a fern pattern T-shirt, scooped necked, stretched out short sleeves.
I think maybe 6 years old. Pasty skin and choppy hair.Dimpled elbows just chubby enough
where I could tell he is fed, but a little too much. With a munchkin English accent, there he was,
softly chit-chat sing-songing an in the moment commentary of his actions and thoughts
as his small sausage fingers went about,
from time to time,
click clacking on a lap top.
His thoughts, I saw. He imagined a news reel of bloody soldiers.
If I knew how to write music I would write his bars. The last two lines he sang were very creepy and are looping in my head.
He asked,
"What comes is it that war,(...pause...) Google Plus,
Why happened to that war, (...pause...) Google Plus,"
the 'plus' ending on a happy-go-lucky higher note...
Going about his business sweetly trying to learn on his own and filling in the blanks as he saw fit.
It was, to me, as dreams seem so real, a disturbing example of make-believe gone really awry. The beginnings of what would become a coping mechanism of habitually manipulative self-reality denial.
I was filled with a little desperation and sadness, I wanted so badly to help him with his sentence structure.
I wished his questions made sense to him.
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