A crying day yesterday. It had to be. All that tightness had to find a release. And it did, outside on our tip, in the sometime sun. He knew. He always does. Saying what was already in my mind to share with him. He is tireless in his support, in his listening, in his trying to understand my fearfulness.

The dream came as a gift. I was at work, though it wasn’t really work. It was an office and C was there. I’ll try to get you some work in local radio, he said, shuffling through some papers. Kind man that he is, even in my dreams (why should he be any different?). There were other women there, secretaries mostly. I’d had to go through a safety door before being admitted, one in which a button was pressed and you had to dash through before it closed behind you. My sister was with me and she was reluctant to come through, I persuaded her. But then she was gone. Did she come in with me? Was it my sister or another side of me? Anyway, one of the women in the office started to stare at me. You’ve got the most amazing feet, she said. And then proceeded to describe what she could see in them. It was the equivalent to reading a palm. She talked about my specialness, my deep self-knowledge, and how she’d never seen anything like it. Then she seemed to grow bored, the message had been passed on and she was back to her normal distracted self. I felt I had to return the compliment or at least be friendly. And noticing a matching series of cups and flask on her desk (rather pink and gaudy) asked if she’d got them for a Christmas present. Yes, she said, bored now. Then I was trying to get out. The office had become a rather faceless hotel with terrible carpets. I asked a waitress serving breakfast where the exit was. I dunno, she said, I’m new here. I asked her colleague who gave me a long description of how I was to go up one set of stairs then down another and so on. But then I was out. And walking. I’m going to get paid anyway, I thought to myself and took off at a leisurely pace down a path, the sun shone and there was birdsong and I felt free and happy. I woke then, ten minutes before the alarm.

I write these for myself. I’m sure my dreams are of no interest to anyone but myself. It’s a good exercise nevertheless. And one day I may wish to reread them. They come back then. The words are a key. He gets flashes of old dreams sometimes, some might say it’s just deja vu. Who knows. It’s all knowledge. A step closer.

Tea now. House has been cleaned, rent paid and now it’s time to work. I feel better.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.