Dreams of Men I Have Killed

Mood: Dreaming, Healed, Apologising
[Toot!] Index: 0.0
Communism Bit: On
Location: Job, of course

First off, a solemn apology.
I have been going on some blogs by Americans (and, generally, people from the West) and saying some very unkind shit. I should make it clear that when I say stuff like `Kill all Americans and Brits', and making grotesque generalisations, I am saying that (usually) for the propaganda effect. Sheer rhetoric. I have not met an American I don't like. They are nice people. It's why I don't want to meet Bush—he may turn out to be like them, and then I'll have nobody to call mean names. So, I don't really mean to be unkind. Of course, I can't say such harsh stuff if there is no hate lurking beneath. But it is not as extreme as I express. I'm not Anti-American—aren't they the ones who invented the t-shirt-and-jeans combo?
This, for all I have caused discomfort (the calls get very graphic, sometimes), is to say I am very, very sorry. I can't promise I won't say them again, but I will try to be more-reasonable henceforth.
(If you don't tell me you've forgiven me, I'll think you haven't, and yet I really hope you do.)

Back to our regular programming.
I keep having this very weird dream. I can't tell when it started. Could be like three years ago. Whenever it occurs, it is very similar. Almost identical. I think there are some little differences, but I never manage to remember it beyond just one (particularly-powerful) scene. And that scene is always there. Too many gaps, but here it is. I'll fill in with fiction where the memory slips, but I'll keep it honest.

I'm in some place, some trees in the distance, grass is very long and thin. A field of sorts. Wind is blowing, silence, birds, blue skies, clouds are very white and very still. As though I'm on high ground. So I am walking through the long grass (or flowers?), and I see some chic seated there on something like an ant-hill or a boulder. Dress is thin, I think with flower prints. [Hold on while I recall the next part.]
She turns around. Looks like she's been crying. Weak smile. Weak but direct from the heart. She reaches out and removes something (like grass) from my hair, draws a breath.
She says: `Now that the War has been lost ... [pause] ... will you be coming back home? Please?'
I go like: `The War has not been lost.'
`But we heard what happened that side. Many men were killed, caught... This is over. Come back home.'
`We started out with less men than we have. The War has not been lost.'
`Come back home.'
`No.'

That is usually all I remember. I didn't even have to pad any gaps. Usually, I wake up around there. I think I remember once going beyond there. She gave me mail, or food, or water, or something. Can't recall.
I dunno who that chic is, and I can't seem to place the face, even though it does come in with fuzzy clarity, sometimes. But whoever she is, this scene rings too loudly of two songs. The first is Dido's White Flag:

I will go down with this ship.
I'll not put up my hands and surrender.
There will be no white flag above my door.
I'm in love, and always will be.

Must be the chic saying it for the me. :o) Flattering, eh? Or me saying it for the Revolution. Or the Revolution saying it for the oppressed (who include the chic). Nice triangle, no?

The other song is a Bob Marley hymn. Keep on Moving.

I can't interpret the dream (can you?), and it's getting a bit scary, I must confess.

PS: Kill all Americans and Brits. Cut them down wherever you find them. Stab them, feed them to the vultures. Throw their babies down the well. All of them.
Kidding, kidding! Guys, you know I am kidding, don't you? You do. Good.

PPS: I'm hooked on Dido, by the way. This Land is Mine, is what I am knocking right now.