In the feeble moonlight I see that the red of the dreams is now on my fingers.
Fifteen years of the same thing happening month after month. I should be better prepared for it by now, and yet it delights in surprising me whenever it can. Possibly every month, if it had its way. The thing that is called a ‘period,’ and it tries hard to insert a comma into life.
Imagine this. The whole day I have been irritable and tetchy. I want to eat three croissants and a packetful of mushy titaura and then a jumbo pack of chips. My stomach is about to burst, and I still feel hungry. I have gotten into an argument with my best friend and snapped twice at a colleague about inconsequential matters. I feel sad and nervous and edgy, like something bad is about to happen. Finally, I give up trying to work or think or even read and crawl underneath my blankets. A beautiful dream awaits me, of lush green pasturelands and bright blue skies. There is even a rivulet with an arched bridge – how romantic! And suddenly, the rivulet turns red. It flows not in my dream but between my legs. My eyelids turn into lead. They refuse to look, the logic is that the river will dry up if I just turn over and go back to sleep.