A home: one
of the most important elements of my daydreams. A bedroom is furnished with
mostly white furniture; a giant tree –hopefully of a cherry tree in the yard
comes into sight through the huge windows of the bedroom. When the sun shines,
the leaves of the tree cast their shadows on the walls, and when it rains, the
leaves get in harmony with the raindrops, and again, the leaves shade. Along with
the wind, shades are dancing a tango into the room.
In the mornings, I prepare
breakfast: crepes, pancakes, French toasts… I brew tea in a china teapot. My
cat comes and rubs his head against my leg; it means “I’m hungry mom.” I cuddle
him, and refresh his food. Then I go into the living room and turn on the TV, and
find a jolly music channel.
I, generally in all frames, seem alone. Except the
cat, I don’t really have a home-mate. I don’t try to share the things that I have.
I am so buried under my so-called “individualism” that all those daydreams end
with tears. The daydream turns into an incubus thus and so.
