My Dream

An emaciated boy sat on tree, eating his heart out. He watched the river flow by below him. It was electric blue. The river gently meandered through hillsides covered with tea bushes which were radiantly green.

An empty canoe floated by on the river. It was empty but not directionless. It had a purpose about it. What the purpose was, or what was the significance of this purpose was not known, but it was a purpose, nevertheless.

The boy scratched his head and looked at his fingers. There was a speck of something wedged in his nails. Was it dandruff or dirt? The answer to that question was, for a fleeting moment, the singlemost important purpose in his life, which could not under any circumstances be ignored.

What i'm writing makes no sense? Its like the Beatles writing- "picture yourself on a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies."

When i picture it in my head, i imagine myself in a Van Gogh painting sitting on a brown boat staring at rinds of orange peel in marmalade in the sky, with the urge to reach out with a knife and take some and spread it on a piece of bread. Its a queerly satisfying feeling. But i don't know from where does this satisfaction comes from or for what reason.