Zombie apocalypse. That’s what I dreamt of.
At my ancestral home, distinctly marked with checkered black and white floors, – I ran around locking up all doors and windows. Double downing with iron-shields. Making sure nothing gets in. Making sure no one gets in once it starts.
Inside the house it was I, not alone with my dog but strangely enough my late maternal-grandmother (my main caregiver when I was a kid) was present, along with my mom (as she sat there complaining about no servants available during zombie apocalypse), and dad (who sat on his rocking chair reading and sipping his Hibiki whiskey). Poochie was just running around, and sniffing at the shield, and I even called my friends to make sure they’re fine and that they’ve safely locked themselves in too.
Such a weird dream.
Yet, it’s the first time I was not out fighting zombies and aliens, but creating a safe space locking myself in. Strange workings of a deranged mind. Hmmm.
Come to think of it, as I sat analysing it this morning, with a bit of help from coffee (and more news of Talibans on BBC) – I think, I have officially, though subconsciously, put my guard back up. And… This time it’s impenetrable.
ANTHROPOLOGY OF LOVE 