I had a dream this morning. In the dream I was fishing with a few friends. Our nylon fishing lines were nylon guitar strings and when each one of us cast our lines into the sea, our reels produced a distinctive musical note. Each one of us produced a note each time we cast. Bhuddi made an E note, Thike made a B, Johan made an Eflat, this girl without a face made an A, this other girl with extremely large breasts made another B and mine sang a solid Fsharp.

We would cast and recast our lines in our own time such that when one or few notes are singing, one or few would be dying or beginning. It sounded like the tides coming and going, it even sounded like rain.

Once in a while we would all coincidentally cast at the same time, we would form a chord and we would laugh.

We caught a few fish, I recall, though I cannot remember what species they were. We cooked the fish in a pit without descaling or gutting them, we then proceeded to dance. In gentle concentric circles around the pit. like paper blown about in the wind, like how I felt yesterday ,that image stuck in my head. I realised I was dreaming and woke myself up.

How do you describe a home that houses nothing. The only thing you can contend with are the spaces between objects. Vacancy is a very terrible thing when living alone and if I had a clock, it would most probably be all that I can hear in this place. I am separated and disassembled and this is my home, filled with quiet and light, so bright in here that it's almost surreal. The sun blasts everything into white space making it that much harder to breath. Everything looks so beautiful yet why am I ice cold ? The door opens and I hear the sickeningly familiar sound of my mother's slippers shuffling across the corridoor. It's odd, it's been only seven days since she left and already I start forgetting what she looked like. They only thing I remember about her are the sound of her slippers, her tatooed eyebrows and her beautiful beautiful voice.


And I woke up for real. It is night. four minutes till tomorrow. Before crying myself back to sleep I was remembering my mother, lifting up her shirt and pulling down the waist of her pants just low enough to see the three surgical scars from the C section. I was a little boy and that was the first time I grasped the fact that I came from inside  this woman.

I didn't know this, but a black butterfly fluttered past the window sill just before midnight. By then I was already asleep and dreaming once more.