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What the Hell, Dream Me?

17/3/2021

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Good morning, Readers!
Picture
Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay
Okay, I’m going to write about a dream I had. I know so many people find that tedious, so feel free to click off now.

Right, so the other day, I had quite the vivid dream. I was on a train trip. I cannot recall if the train was taking me somewhere specific or the train ride was the point of the trip. It was quite a swish train. Anyway, word got around the cars that in one of them was a man who claimed to grant wishes to anyone who asked.

So I and my travel companion headed off to what looked like the bar car to seek this man out and make our wishes.

If anyone cares, I don’t know who this companion was. I don’t think I now her in real life. She was older than me, I recall, but not by much. Anyway, I get to sit with the guy and we chat.

He looks like a regular man. He wore a brown suit. Had greying hair and a round, kindly face. He spoke softly, but there not without strength or confidence. Finally, in the course of this conversation, we get around to my wish.

And what do I wish for?

My own house, which I’ve wanted for forever? Success as a writer - being able to support myself with my writing alone, which I’ve wanted for forever? Did I wish to find my soulmate, which I haven’t really wanted but that seems a normal thing for folk to wish for?

No. No I did not.

You would think I would’ve; at least the first two, because they’re things I’ve wanted so desperately for so long. But did I? No.

What did I wish for?

A flat stomach.

What the actual fuck, dream me? Since when have you cared so much for that nonsense? I mean, I’ve certainly cared. My tummy is a source of shame for me and has been for a long time. But I would never throw away the opportunity to own my own home or to become a successful writer for that obnoxious vanity.

For real, dream me. I am legitimately pissed off at you.

Thank heavens it was only a dream and no random dude on a train can actually grant wishes. And no wishes granted in a dream have any chance of coming true.

Right?

Right?

Even so, what a stupid thing to wish for. For fuck’s sake.
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    S.M. Carrière, a Celtic Studies enthusiast, writes fiction.  And this blog.

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