I had a dream last night, it was a gateway to the other realities I am always trying to convince people of and in it I was reborn. I was born out of the thin white cloud that trails jets in all sorts of skies and I fell to earth and landed silently, on two pink feet onto a seemingly fragile branch of a weeping willow. I walked along it, traced its life with my steps and tried to console the sad tree. Then it told me of everything I had missed while I was on the other side of the door, and I too started to weep. The tree then told me of all of the great minds and I took off in search…

Without passing through any physical space I landed at the Vatican, in a monk’s robe, even though I was a woman. An old man stood next to me speaking in a language that it seemed no one understood, although they all looked at him as if he were a god. I decided it was too ridiculous to handle and so gently scooted him aside, and in my innately perfect language I spoke to the dumbfounded thousands.

As I read them Blakes’ All Religions are One in a new language understood by all, the strong ones rose up and the weak fell to the stone ground of the church and begged for god’s mercy. To escape the persecution I had heard the Catholic church was famous for, I closed my eyes and was transported back to the weeping willow. I was not alone. Standing, sitting, dancing on leaves and branches alike – I mean everyone from Karl Marx to Diego Rivera to Dali and Gala to the KFC kernal. Diego approaches me, and I am afraid that he will break our sad sanctuary and he grabs me by the hips and thrusts me towards him, gently of course. He smiles into my ears. I shout into his and push him off the free for all that he has done and is trying to do to Frida. I thought love was eternal…

Hitler comes up to me crying, saying he was confused and I am the only person who could understand. The Bible told him to, he fairly screams. The Jews told him to and the gypsies too. I say nothing and he threatens to recommit suicide, like he expects me to stop him. I do nothing and neither does he, so I push him off the tree too. In my dream I kill George Bush too. But then no one has anything to say. The protestors cannot protest and the poets cannot write. Historians have nothing to argue. And just like that, emotion is wiped off this earth.

I am the only one left in the tree and the only person left to destroy is myself. Maybe then it will all be erased. Maybe I, with struggle and sacrifice will disappear from an anti-climactic history…

My mother comes and pushes me off the tree… and I awake to the sound of knocking on my door.

Lizy Snowden