a moominous gift
This morning beautiful limpid insight was granted to me in a dream. I was younger, younger than I'd been in a while, and I was surrounded with friends, most of whom have been long headless, and I was so happy to see them again and walk the halls of our supreme high school with them. The occasion was joyous: some mix of Jul and end of school celebrations. The spacious corridors of our school, once a convent for evil nuns, were sided all along by food stands of all kinds and I, in the spirit of the celebrations, forgot myself and my steadfast veganism and ate a "drake mix" dumpling. But it was a theatre play, and everyone laughed comedically. Now, my reason of being there was not merely of pleasure: indeed, business was also on my mind. You see, students of all walks of life had gathered there to sell their most important belongings and I, for the occasion, had put my most beloved non-sentient object into a makeshift frame: the first original Moomin comic strip from 1947. In the faulty logics of the dream, though, this wonderful exemplar of incredible value (both economical and sentimental, me being the first actor to play little Moomintrollet on stage with a modicum of success) had been made larger, ever the large, and in order to carry it I had to use both my hands, sweat profusely, and constantly apologize to the unfortunate walkers-by that I hit in the ribs or the chin. The greater the Moomin comic, the greater the lesson, I see now. But in the dream I was disadvantaged, terribly uneasy. Everyone around me had been enjoying their festival, eating some beetroots with marmalade, maybe a bit of pork, drinking the elixir of life, Julmost, and selling small objects for a small gain. I knew, however, I had far greater a treasure than them, and insisted on finding a suitable client. Bracing myself through the crowd, steadfastly advancing, I kept thinking of this man (for no woman needs to possess a Moomin comic, since they are given them at birth, and collectors are infrequently of this kind) - what he would look like, how would I recognize him. I knew one thing: despite the quite unprofessional packaging, my sweat marring its cardboard exterior, the perfect buyer would need no more than one single look to estimate the value of my product, and gentlemanly refuse any attempt at bargaining. He would look at me, look at my wonderful original 1947 Moomin strip, and immediately call for me to halt and proceed with the deal. This was my client and I would settle for nothing less. A few Scandinavian students approached me with their backs bent, begging for my Moomin strips, but they were rats, really, and I scattered them to the winds.
All the while a good friend of mine, so sadly faceless in the clarity that comes with morning, walked with me. They never tried to convince me to give up my quest, and renounced a great deal of celebrating to be with me, to support me when my knees became weak, and carry the original Moomin comic for me when I faltered. But I knew they did not agree with it, not deep down, and wanted for the both of us to lose the comic and ourselves in the crowd of jubilant teenagers. But they stayed at my side, the most loyal of friends. It was a Finn, stark naked as they often are, and with handsome eyes of glass. We kept walking and walking, the two of us, and I, losing my faith by the minute, kept looking with preoccupation at the signs indicating the toilets. Me and my friend then came to a rare place of rest, where the celebrants were more sparse, and we decided to catch our breath there. It had come to that, I realized - catching a breath where everyone was busy having fun, enjoying themselves, the last light before the true entity of the dark. My friend looked at me and smiled. In that moment it became clear to me that the darkness was all mine, that I had been refusing the light, that I was holding on to quite a treasure, sure, but that it had been hindering my faculty for happiness, for levity. The friend, medically aware of my thoughts, asked the maieutic question: who amongst us would treasure an original 1947 Moomin comic strip? And I was released. Through the sweat dripping from my brow I could finally see that I was the buyer I had been looking for. The treasure was mine to keep and enjoy. I had been the custodian and the enjoyer of the Moomin comic all along. By the light in my eyes, reflected in theirs, my friend understood my illumination and we sprung to embrace each other. I caressed their hair, looking at them from the vantage of my height, and promised we'd spend the night turning the comic's pages at candlelight together. I entrusted the package - suddenly so light - to them and decided to lose myself in the celebrations, too. I walked towards the closest male bathroom and, as I most often do in my dreams, I started looking for quick and dirty gay sex, of which there is always plenty, for those with eyes to look. I was greeted by pissing jubilants, standing and flowing by the urinals, which turned their gaze at me and welcomed me into their fun.
17.05.2024