I dreamt that my words are missing, more than just a few. Seriously I have been looking for them for days. Remembered writing them words, a part of my story, this much is true. I mixed up my looking for my words in my dream about an alcove in the family home I grew up in. Where I suspect they are hidden.
Where are my precious words, this cannot be, how could I be so careless, I have searched through all my note books on my desk. Searched through my notes in my bag, searched through that little book I carry everywhere like a security blanket. I find a paragraph, some prompts for the bigger story of the words that I have misplaced, in pretty purple writing. That’s no good to me.
I find myself standing in front of an alcove in the family kitchen; this alcove has three round white painted shelves, spaced evenly apart. Though you wouldn’t know as the shelves are treated like a dumping ground, you tend to forget what’s on them shelves, just piles of stuff. I look at the round boxes; surely my words can’t be in there, what a nightmare. Besides who puts words that are on square paper in round boxes. Makes no sense to me at all, am I the only sane one in this house, do others think like me. Probably not, mores the pity.
These round shelves should have bowls, filled with fruit, round vases with flowers, even better, plants in round pots. Not words on square paper that are squashed into round boxes, they don’t fit nearly neat enough at all.
With a sigh I start to empty out the box that’s within easy reach, pulling out the square papers, one at a time, procrastinating, reading what’s what. Searching for my words. There are receipts, they have numbers on them, and I don’t do numbers makes my eyes bleed. You might as well stab my eyeballs with a blunt fork, that’s how much I love numbers.
There are words in bold red print, final demand, and warning. Well, fat lot of good they are in here, where you dump anything you want to ignore. I find permission slips for excursions, they need signing and money attached, guess that excursions past then. My words aren’t in here. I place the round box on the floor, shove the square papers back inside the round box and press them down with the ball of my foot, which I think you would call oval in shape. Using my weight to push them papers further into the round box, before they spring out at me.
I look up at the next shelf, it’s just out of my reach, I stand on the bottom shelf which is 6 inches off the ground, this shelf is stacked with clothes, I wiggle my feet under the clothes, gives me a bit of leverage, I reach up till my hands curl around the lip of the top box. I fall back taking the box with me. The contents scatter all over the floor. Dazed, I lay for a moment to get my bearings. In this box were, but, which are now scattered over the lino floor surrounding me are round pills in round bottles, oblong envelopes folded in half so they will fit into the round box. None of my words are here though. Why would they, they would be in a square box, now theres a thought.
Guess I am going to have to write them again, if in fact as I had originally thought I had. Maybe, maybe not?
What do you think, did I or didn’t I? Or did I just dream up the words and didn’t get around to writing them.
In a nutshell people, don’t put words on square paper in round boxes, that’s just not cricket. ©