I struggled just to wake up this morning. The brain was tired and did not respond to the commands of my conscience that I called on it to get up. When I open my eyes with this feeling of total clouding, it is usually because my dream activity was particularly intense at night. What makes me angry, however, is that almost never remember my dreams. Thus precluding the ability to analyze and discover more of myself. I get up in the knowledge that he had done nothing but dream, and yet nothing seems to have been abducted to those experiences. If you do an immense fatigue, in fact. Instead, this morning, has resurfaced in all its thick palpable anxiety experienced while waiting for the execution of my mother. Why she was before the gallows, do not know. In the dream, however, did not seem at all strange. I took for granted. I was desperate, of course. But not disbelief. Neither did she. Not even an attempt to spare the tragic epilogue. Only resignation and hugs and kisses and tears and expressions of great love for each other. And that expectation that he had never end. The whole dream is configured as waiting for death as separation. This served as a tragic incentive to confess things that we never gave up until now. I do not remember the time of execution. Perhaps because the dream never came. The few dreams that I happen to hold, in effect, have mostly to do with traumatic separations from people I love. Nothing strange in this. And in this case is not the first time my mother died a violent death in my nightmares. I remember one that still goes back to my early childhood, which was mysteriously cut off his head, but she, incredibly, was not dead yet and still talk to me, even trying to tranquillizarmi. But, because tonight my own mother in front of the Executioner? Too disturbing. Then, suddenly, came to my mind the last few pages last night I was ferried from waking in the arms of Morpheus. And this awareness has taken a good deal of mystery to my dream. I read Jeanne Becu, better known as Madame du Barry. The favorite of Louis XV, who replaced the heart and bed of the sovereign frigid Reinette de Pompadour (disappointment, eh? When you think of Madame de Pompadour - will also be due to the vaguely onomatopoeic name, so to speak - it materializes' s idea of \u200b\u200blust and made woman, however, was not very passionate woman, and health poor, and the relationship that joined the king was more cerebral than sensual and emotional nature). Jeanne, on the contrary, he was really passionate. And better than any other embodied the concept of "lovers." Condition of a bitch got his king's official maximum privileges to which a favorite could aspire. He had the misfortune to get just the wrong time, on the eve of the Revolution. And we put on his head. I remember I was asleep just as intent to consider the various ways in which human beings face the gallows. I wondered how I would react. With the regal poise of Marie Antoinette that did not change and, almost haughty, held out her pretty white neck to cool the blade (as I hope)? Or succumb to an unseemly manner full of sound and fury and futile attempts to escape as the du Barry, very pathetic, went so far as to implore the Lord Executioner - the famous Samson - not to hurt her? "Grace, grace, Monsieur le Bourreau."
(my mother, of course, faced the test of a true queen. With great dignity, regardless of the Executioner and death itself. The pain was only in the awareness of having to lay off forever by those who love, so it is only leave in which focused, targeting the objectives do not leave anything unsaid or unspoken).
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