Saturday, 1 October 2011

Straight from my subconscious.

While I was sleeping at a really uncomfortable angle in the plane from Doha to London I had the strangest dream, and I figured I would share it with you.

In my dream swans in ao dais cycled pas in V formation, one wing resting elegantly on the handle bars, the other tucked onto the seat, short black legs peddling away as their graceful bodies floated along. The sky was the colour of rice paddies in the sun, and waved gently in the wind, sending bright white piles of rice noodles scudding across its surface like clouds, each pile attended by a grandmother in bright floral pyjamas and a conical hat with dark red plastic chopsticks. Golden fried bananas flew by on rice paper wings like dragon flies. Trees stood planted with their leafy tops sin the soil, roots carved into intricate zodiac sculptures. The air was painted with translucent scenes from the Buddha's life. The wind smelled of pagoda, and when the sun had set into lines of freshly laundered monk's robes, constellations of lotus and frangipani flowers bloomed in the dark sky.

All of which proves one of two things; my dream world is like being on crack, or my subconscious knows it's going back. Or maybe both.  

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