I go in circles. I meet myself again and again. Which dream is this? I’ve dreamt this dream before and it did not end well.
So I pull your dream into mine. Now my dream mingles with yours. For a brief time, our dreams seem the same. In this dream, we forget we are two. In this dream, we float in union. In this dream, we forget ‘I’ is dreaming and isn’t it good? Isn’t it bliss? Isn’t it eternal?
This time I wake up first. Or is it you who does? It doesn't matter.
We are separated. ‘I’ returns to its own dream. Now our bodies lie next to each other, dreaming separate dreams. In my dream, I am in the earth with eighty Yazidi women. Our dresses of white blow like shreds of peace flags in the wind, blood stained against the blue of the sky, the brown of the desert. The men who left us here and took the rest, have long been gone.
But the daughters return now, searching for their mothers and grandmothers.
In this dream, I am searching for you. In your dream, are you searching for me?
Nina Simon (live). Sinnerman from Pastel Blues. 1965