Dreams are impossible, intimate things. Ephemeralia that come to us and leave unremembered. Thick structures of ironglass and desire that are built upon, night after night.
It would be completely insane if it wasn’t completely normal. What, you mean that you just lie down for eight hours and you can’t move? And the whole time you’re experiencing and thinking things that you have no control over? And then you just get up and have a shower and go to work?
A lot of the things we call dreams aren’t dreams in the same sense. ‘Dream’ is just the coathook we hang our wishes on. Dream house, dream boy, dream life.
In any place that there are dreams, I dream of tattoos. I dream of deep swirls of scarification, magick woven deeply into the flesh and bound tight with scar. I dream of the perfect geometries of elementary particles, smashed together again and again so we can learn by tearing them apart.
I got my first tattoo fifteen years ago. It was at once aspirational and prescriptive, a way to both guide and bind my future self to the things I was worried about losing.
I have a new tattoo now, to guide and bind me. I travelled over 15,000 kilometres for it.
I’ll always be able to find my way home now.