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It was just dream; a dream of masculinity and suffering and pain. So much pain, pent-up pain and anger; sad anger, the icy silence of isolation, the warm embrace of fighting fists. The men in the plaza are in loose movement. Their faces, interchanging with the face of my brother, my cousin, my friend, boys from school, from childhood, and masculine figures and symbols from throughout the ages. The action begins with an insult that is swiftly rejected by the opposing party. The original sentiment is then doubled down on, reinforced, reiterated, and rephrased. The other rejoins this time with anger and a piercing assault of his own. The trajectory to war seems inevitable, but at any moment any man can step down. Deep inside us we know this, but it seems that no one knows how to engage this action. Nobody has been taught such knowledge. A boy with braces begins to slug. His fat fists connect with round jowls. Bodies begin to fall. The crowd feels the ripple effect; a shockwave of fight excitement which sweeps through the crowdmind. We pull ourselves together and zoom in on the fight with glee. We watch, lewd spectators of the hot blood and warm thuds of those familiar fists. We see the a.i. warping of faces and bodies and dream logic keeps every movement dancing on a twisting film of ice. The punching doesn't vary. Everything is bloody and numb now, the number of the round has been forgotten. Both parties are weaker. Both are still striking. Suddenly a random semblance of authority pours into the crowd. The men part and separate themselves into small, innocent groups. We wait to see what happens. Then news comes round. Rewards are being handed out. The fighters are being rewarded. Elation. We cheer for our favourites. They are handed their prizes. They make speeches, about the struggle, about the honour of the enemy. About withstanding the scrutiny of society's cold gaze. The isolation, the anger, the pain.&nbsp; Pills are offered; medicine for the head. The men are being sedated. The men are being rewarded and sedated at the same time. The irony is too much. It feels too raw, too detached. Are they being praised or are they being chastised? Are they heroes or are they sick?&nbsp; My brother, my friend, I see him; red and crying in silence. I leave, not knowing how to face him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what to feel. He needs me and I am nowhere. He needs attention and care, he needs my love and support. I can only give him space. I can only offer my absence; a solace from shame. A bitter laugh dances through the crowd and finds my ears. You are not here, you are not fighting, but there you are. There is no escape. There is no absence of you. The persistent voice of authority continues its unvaried metallic sounding instructions... My mother died... Cries out my cousin, tears in his beard. And my mother died when I was so young... So much pain. So much suffering. So much pain.

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A dream story about masculinity

WabyEliott

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A story dream about masculinity

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Waby Eliott

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