This day, it has come with a sadness that is arresting.
I tried to go for a walk this morning but I couldn’t. I kept starting, and then going back. It seemed all I was able to do was raise apocalyptic thoughts and become consumed with a void, so after a while of this I lied on my bed. I could see a bird resting on the iron rail of my balcony, ruffling its feathers, making me conscious of my own feathers on my dress.
I dreamt I was in the silent city. There were the Knights of Malta in their black cloaks and crosses, some in their red and gold ensembles, marching through the main gate in fives. I can’t remember their faces but I will never forget the sound of their marching on the cobble stone ground. There was a drum somewhere distant being played, thumping rhythmically to the pace of the knights and a crowd gathering some steps away from the stone wall I had been standing near.
I would not move from where I was, I couldn’t, but the crowd did break up, to allow me to see a glimpse of St Paul right before he was executed. I felt much younger in the dream and I was surely helpless as I saw the scene unfold but nothing really happened, except that my anxiousness grew. The same scene played over for a while, until I woke up to my floral bedding and this persistent sadness.
Story credit:Vogue Espana for the image.