I need to remember how it feels. I need to remember why I’m doing this.

I get so bogged down with this greyness that I cannot see ahead.

I need to remember how it felt when he called, the thrill I felt talking about it, I could hardly get my breath. That is why I am doing it. To feel. To feel alive. To feel alive with possibility.

I dreamt that I’d arrived in a strange town. It was near the sea but in England not Wales, somewhere like Sussex. It was daytime and the sun was shining. I’d walked over the brow of a hill and the town had opened out before me. An elegant place, well-to-do. I sat down on a rock and looked at it below me. A woman came up to me and began to talk about how run down it was, how shops had shut and so on and how it was something to do with the original town planners not building the houses big enough for the people who lived in them. They’re all building roof extensions, she said. And without permission. It’s quite ruining the town. I remembered that he, I think it was he (though the man was younger and bearded, I think) was picking me up in his white van (yes, I know) because we were due to move. I saw it across the road waiting for me. The woman followed me and opened the passenger door. He, anxious to get off, was rather gruff with her. I don’t like him, she muttered to me as she shut the door. We arrived at our home and I realised just before I woke that we couldn’t drive up to the front door meaning that we’d have to carry all our stuff back and forth such a long way.

Dream pictures are fascinating, don’t you think? A grey day yesterday, they promise sun today. I’ve had a coffee, it’s been a while, now it is time for tea and proper stuff, I missed the lift yesterday when I only drank decaff. What’s the point? many would say. The need for sleep, I suppose. Right, onward – to work, to work on the ‘what’ not the ‘how’.

I asked him to buy me a hyacinth. Have I said how much I love them? Of course, he said, I love buying you presents. Just one, I said. A simple bulb, not yet flowered. Ok, he said.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.