This is not the dream...

Night descends in swathes of velvet. Darkness wraps inky arms around trees and houses, and creeps into nooks and crannies. Silence falls.
I am alone. He is away. I should be safe. I am tucked away behind six foot walls and gates. The garden is studded with invisible beams to foil the unwary intruder. The security gates which guard all the doors are locked. The doors are bolted, the windows are shut their burglar bars protecting them. The LEDs on the security system gleam with eyes that are ever-vigilant. Yes, I should be safe.
I switch off the lights and am cocooned by a sea of black. I like the night. I feel safe in the dark – unseeing and unseen. Stillness washes over me and I sleep.
My subconscious awakens, taps into the collective unconscious. It weaves dreams of trouble and torment. My sleep becomes restless. I toss and turn. My shoulders tighten, ride up to my ears. My gut, the emotional heart of me, gurgles in trepidation. My body breaks out into the clammy sweat of a cold night.
I awaken, ears alert. Outside all is quiet. Something thuds in the roof. I jerk. I run through the security checklist in my mind, remind myself that my neighbours – near and far – patrol the streets every hour of the night. I sense my angels around me, protecting me – as they have always done.
I fall into an uneasy sleep and again my subconscious encounters the collective unconscious. We are all one. We are all afraid. It is how we live. Muggings, rapes, murders, armed robberies, beatings, knifings, road rage, drug and alcohol abuse, child abuse, animal abuse, corruption, deceit… This is a society that bubbles with aggression, violence and fear. It touches everyone in some way.

Dawn rises and the first robin starts to sing, his warble of pure honey flooding the beginning of a new day. The rose-tipped fingers of daybreak stretch into the blue of heaven and the touch the granite face of the mountain with kisses of pink radiance. The guinea fowl with their strident calls advance along the road. Outside my window a squirrel chatters.
I awake – stiff, aching and unsettled. I stretch and do what we all do – our only way of coping – I bury my head in the sand – try to pretend things are not what they seem. Try to believe everything is different. My subconscious together with the collective unconscious prays that maybe one day it will be.


This is not the dream for which the great Madiba fought. This is not the liberation for which thousands of freedom fighters struggled. As I listened to our great elder statesman, the father of a nation, Neslon Rolihlahla Mandela, speaking in London at the unveiling of his statue in Parliament Square, I wondered where it had all gone so horribly wrong. This is not the dream…

(Images used in this post... courtesy of Google image searches.)