The table next to my recliner holds an ever growing pile of books, amongst them Man and His Symbols.
I’ve made a promise to myself to finish the ten or so half-read books I’m currently working through before starting anything new, so I’ll have to wait to figure out what Jung (et al.) have to say about my dreams. Until then my unconscious thought life will remain unexamined.
Until then I won’t think about what this most recent addition to my dreams means, nor will I think about all of the other bits and pieces, and what they are adding up to.
I’m sure it’s nothing.
It has to be nothing.
My brain feels spent on so many other things lately. My art work. My health. Processing this horrific genocide…
When it comes to words worth sharing here, there isn’t much.
Maybe soon there will be something with more substance than these recent, sad, anemic entries.