Publicado: fevereiro 19, 2011 em THOUGHTS

My dreams always have sets that I can’t really place in a specific city but are identifyable to me as being here or there, meaning Lisbon, Paris, London or other for its characteristics.

Last night I came accross my father who had come from the dead for a visit. In the dream, the place was Lisbon, behond the acquaduct, neither street nor field but rather a quite bare place in the middle of a kind of walk.

Popular sayings usually tell us the dead are calling us but I didn’t feel so. It was such a happy dream, maybe the first in forty seven years or so that when I woke up I felt like tellling the story.

Most important of all was the fact that I had the ocasion to tell him in a sort of final word, how much I used to like going fishing with him and he openned his wide smile of happiness as if he weren’t expecting to hear that.

These days it’s funny to think how often I usually say that I’m older than him, more than fifteen years, as he stopped there, in that night of 1961 or two. But he had aged. My mind put a few years on him to fit the part. We are all directors of our own minds in the end. Most of all we write well at night, as we make sense out of things that may have happened in what we define as a split-second in what we call reality measured by logic and time.

Thanks for the visit Dad and go back in peace.


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