I Have Never Dreamt of Bicycles


There are dream spaces which evoke such a sense of beauty and wonder that I derive joy just remembering them.

No, not the Brontosaurus chasing me through a deserted city of my nine-year-old self.
Nor the huge, threatening big cats which menaced my loved ones eight and nine years ago. Nor all the dreams of half empty bottles of alcohol secreted and quickly drunk from.

Those are warnings and indicators of tricky, dangerous or deadly paths.

But the company of Witches in endless meadows of flowers; the exquisite opening of a corn blue flower;the enormous house upon the cliff top, which I know is my soul’s representation in dreams.

Most of all, the deepest jewel-blue and silver frosted waves on the shore and in the lagoon of a location I both know and have forgotten – the moon glorious in the sky illuminating the night time scene. There is movement and there is colour here I have not seen upon the earth in millennia.

These ‘scapes are the soul’s reminder that we are still capable of apprehending Beauty.

In tandem I appreciate them with a morning spent under the bright African sun, slowly deadheading a monstrous climbing rose, while in the background rise the wails and screeches of a humanity gone so insane that they believe that racing bicycles through the streets of one of the busiest, dirtiest, most toxic cities on the continent is some kind of fun.

Come on people. If you want to race, take it somewhere else. Most of us most assuredly do not want to be forced to participate in your unhealthy preoccupation.

And the next time I come across six of you riding abreast at four in the morning, I’m going to do my damnedest to give you enough of a fright to maybe knock some gods damned sense into your empty little heads.

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