Last night I dreamed I was trying to get through a border crossing in some strange, Eastern european landscape, barren and stern.
I was driving a rusted and battered old car and the check point was constructed with shot-at stone and bales of barbed wire. There were other cars in front of me, slowly proceeding, and I was getting increasingly anxious. The car I was driving, I knew, was filled with raw meat.
I don’t know whether I was trying to smuggle it in or out through the border; only that there were steaks and slabs of flesh hidden in the doors and in the wheel wells, and I was certain that if this was discovered I’d be added to the cache. I was getting worried because of how slowly the line was proceeding. The whole car was starting to smell.
I woke up before the guards started questioning me.
Was my last update a dream as well? It was. It was, and yet there’s been so much I’ve wished to write about.
It’s strange. I have been having an unusual number of deep conversations recently, with strangers and friends alike, and yet they’ve been of the sort that feel too personal and fraught to use even as inspiration for more public writing, not so much for my own sake, but due to the confidences of others. One layer of anonymity is nowhere near enough.
Perhaps this is why writers turn to fiction.