I had another one of those dreams last night; vivid, but tender.
They have all been recent but I can’t write about them here. Somehow it wouldn’t be right. But I know the cause of them so there is no real need for analysis.
It really started after I met my friend C here a couple of weeks back. He said the film was fine; except for one thing. The producer had said they really needed me to talk about A. I had previously refused saying that that is the one thing I could never talk about. I had said all I was prepared to in my book. He said he had told her that, but she had said it was really an essential part of the script.
I had still refused but he said maybe I could I tell him privately. He would still write it into the script for me to see but I had his word that I could change it or he would delete it all if necessary. Well, I knew I could trust C (one of the few people left that I can anymore) but it was also so difficult to talk about; indeed. I didn’t even want to remember.
It was so difficult because he didn’t just want to know about my vision of her on the Hampstead lake (well, that is in the book) but details of my relationship with her; our life together, why we never got married. And how she died all those years ago.
So I told him. But in doing so it seems to have unlocked a deep channel which released everything back to the surface. I know that this is what is causing the regular dreams. It is not really that I want any escape from them, but some, by their intensity, are so painful. She was the only person that I ever really loved.
The words with which I concluded my book, and which I wrote in that dreary prison, still come flooding back come flooding back to me . . . “Oh, how I loved that Child of Fate. But how much more were my feelings now being corrupted by pangs of hate” . . .
Its raining outside, just like it was raining in some of the dreams as well . . .