I was still feeling a little off when I wrote the earlier entry. I’m not sure what I wanted to say exactly. Maybe it all was the effect of all the medicines. Maybe I should erase it, but I don’t want to. I’m recording my struggles trying to write and bizarre entries are part of it.
When I’m sick with the flu or any feverish illness, I get into a delirious state even if it’s a non-flu flu. I used to get the weirdest dreams that reminded me of the Surrealists. Have anybody ever seen Luis Buñuel‘s Un perrro andaluz? I saw it at New York’s MoMA a couple of years back. That’s the kind of dream I’m talking about.
They’d be perfect if I actually manage to remember them, but all I could recall are incoherent pieces and I’m not sure I’ll be able to use them in any way.
I’m not the kind of person that wakes up and write all her dreams. Never did it before and I won’t start now. However, sometimes I wish I were, because I’d have a journal filled with hundreds of ideas ready for me to write about. Or maybe not.
Meanwhile I’m still unable to write and wishing ardently I’d be able to.