I woke so many times and each time felt fatigue flood my body, forcing me back to sleep, going back to the same dream, until it had concluded, like I was in an alternate reality that would not let me go until my task was completed. I slept so late.
I dreamed fascism came to us. It started in the schools, where else? I saw it coming and tried to escape slowly and quietly, but was thwarted at every turn by doors that were locked, guards that appeared suddenly, first jovial and in costumes, under the guise of keeping the students safe. A festival was named, there was food and a circus atmosphere, so that most did not feel the yoke tightening. The more I tried to run the harder it was to move my feet, and the more I felt myself whispering instead of yelling. Those whispers, though, they found their way to the ears of those who also recognized the signs. We spoke falsehoods out loud to each other as a diversion, while writing the truth in notes. We made borscht, giant pots of it, and from under the sound of the rhythmic chopping of the beets and onions - we chopped yams and carrots and sweet potatoes, too, but only as a distraction, they were never intended for our soup, just a pile of colours to dazzle scrutinizing eyes - from the rhythm of the chopping was born a plan. More joined us, and we continued to make individual and easily detectable escape attempts, to be thrown back over and over. But quietly we built strength, and with coded messages and well timed precision, one night we ran en masse and I was thrown far over the wall by the hands of many who sacrificed themselves for the cause, so I could run and run and spread the word, to free us from the isolation of silence.
Before this I also dreamed a talking horse would not let me out of buying it, for the steep price of seven apples. So who am I that my dreams are to be trusted?