Nightmare

I’ve taken a vow to post here daily, to discover what is happening to me. A million things hit my consciousness each day, so what can I mean? I shall write in accordance with blind compulsion, with no guarantee of truth, other than some poetic kind. Yet, as they used to say in the slot-machine  arcade on Hastings Pier, it’s all for “amusement only”.

I awoke this morning disturbed by a dream whose miasma clung to me for many minutes. Dreams can be tedious to relate and worse for the listener, so I’ll try to distil this one’s “poetic truth”.

I’ve recently been on a long train journey, but something has happened to the train: some unknown emergency. I stand on a platform with a knot of other passengers. I’m wearing a suit, but no shoes or socks. It dawns on me that my luggage is still on the train, wherever that went; my shoes too. I’ve no idea where I am. I have nothing besides what I’m standing up in, and no clue as to my intended destination.

In the next scene, an officious woman tells me my luggage has been found. The company is anxious to return it to me. “However, Mr Vincent, you failed to follow the railway company’s instructions to put a label on your suitcase. We therefore had no option but to submit it to a laboratory for analysis. With the aid of forensic skills including DNA profiling, we identify you as the owner. Here’s the bill for that analysis. As soon as you settle, we’ll arrange for the suitcase to be flown back from the laboratory to any address you choose; anywhere in the world. You look worried, Mr Vincent. Let me assure you that airfreight charges are included, and there will be no extras.”

I have no money to pay the charge, which hugely exceeds the value of my lost things. I wander back into the crowd of travellers to escape her shrill voice, which now threatens me with prosecution, bailiffs and a poor credit rating.

In the final scene, I arrive at some kind of terminal: it might be a bus station, or airport. Someone greets me with “Good news! Your family are here! Your troubles are at an end.” It turns out to be the family of my eldest son. Apparently they are staying at the terminal for a few days, for it’s a kind of holiday camp too; or perhaps a stage set by Piranesi. So I wait till they appear. My granddaughter comes, looks excited to see me, takes my hand, dances expectantly round me as if I am a kind of Santa Claus. I don’t know what to say and have no presents to offer. All I have is what I’m wearing: the same suit, the same unwashed shirt, the same lack of shoes and socks.

Finding them solves nothing. We cannot even offer each other understanding. Till this moment I had hope. Now, not even that.

 This is the point where I wake up.