I struggle with the thoughts inside my head, for they are not mine. All those judgements, barbs and fault-findings, they run counter to my need, no my absolute requirement to be kind. As I said they are not my thoughts, they are borrowed, handed-down. He spoke well, that Somalian barrister. He articulated my struggles so much so that I he got under my skin. I am a representative of all of those he described – the privileged, the middle-class and the fortunate. I have had all that I have needed to get on in life – though I suspect my parents would say (if they were still living) that I haven’t made the best of it. My conscience is strong. I want to change. I want to embrace all the self-awareness that he was promulgating. A good man, I think.
I dreamt, no doubt of a consequence of what I had listened to, that I had an Asian lover. He was kind, but I was very aware of how we were perceived by the world. At one point he was celebrating my achievements (what they were I’m not certain) over a loud-hailer. It was convoluted dream featuring 70 year-old women becoming pregnant (I worried that I might too), another woman arguing over some books and me packing and unpacking (he and I were always on the move).
I hold my breath for them, all of them. I wish there was something that we could do. Be there with them. Make it alright. Please.
