Dreams

How is it that what Martin Luther King had and what I have are the same? I believe they’re called dreams. His were about equality for all; mine are about cats and porridge and blurred vacant silences. One can, apparently, dream of becoming a doctor. Last night I dreamt that I was a ceiling fan in an aerobics class. I know it sounds saucy but these women were terrifying. They were large, possibly of Eastern European decent. Their beefy arms thrashed the air in tune with Madonna as the sweat poured down their hapless faces. What does it mean? Am I an angry Eastern European woman? Why can’t I dream of being president or winning Wimbledon like the other boys? In my dreams I never see myself. I fall, am chased, make love and then, wake up.