These Dreams...

Spent most of the night last night and early morning this morning trying to sneak out of my boarding school/government office/apartment and across disputed and nearly vertical territory so that I could stand in the place where Joan of Arc or Brigid or the Blessed Virgin once stood to look out over the land so I could scatter someone's ashes properly. Sometimes it was my mother; sometimes it was my dearest friend; sometimes it was a total and complete stranger to whom I owed a great debt. Sometimes it was the lot of them at once.

Whoever it was, she was in a tin pail in my hand being rained on until I could get to a place where the rain wasn't and the winds were strong enough to send the ashes dancing. Because she always did love to travel, and stowing her in one spot in this godsforsaken bucket is the purest form of insult.

I had friends with me. Friends who were at once the four Musketeers (headed by Michael York and Oliver Reed) and my pack of boys from highschool. One by one, they're picked off by men in suits trying to keep us off the high and holy ground, until at the last, the only one beside me is Chris, my old DM and ex-beau. And he's trying to convince me just to bury my ward or else dump her behind a hedge. She's dead; she'll never notice.

I shove him to go rolling down the hill.
She's dead. She'll notice everything. And anyway, I promised.

So up and up I climb, through rain and mud and thrown rocks, until I reach the overlook.
And there's a ceiling over it.
No wind.
Beyond it, a world...but no wind and no room to stand.

Frustration.
Sheer frustration.

~sigh~ Here's hoping this week doesn't see more of the same.