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July 29, 2019 | by  | in Dream Diagnosis | [ssba]


DREAM: My dream is that I buried an old woman in my school rugby fields and the police helped me after they saw the hole. Please help


Dear dreamer, 

On first glance, for all intents and purposes, I’m going to presume you’re a lousy bastard. But the sheer broadness of the dream is intriguing. The act of burying means one of two things—either something in your life is ending, or you’re repressing an emotion or a thought. I’m going to go out on a limb here (because you’ve “taken the time” to write in) to say that it’s good, old, cold-blooded repression. Hell, with you kids, it’s always repression—every time you feel a splash of anything, be it joy or terror, you just throw your head down and mindlessly scroll until the swelling emotions have once again withered away. It’s not healthy, and damn it if it doesn’t have repercussions! If nothing else, it ends up with you wasting a winter’s afternoon scrolling the net to find Melany Tonin’s email address, so you can send in one lousy sentence and expect me to save you. Who relies on a bloody student magazine for advice?! I can’t even save myself. 

Anyway, according to a Google dream dictionary, an old woman is actually a positive symbol, meaning it’s time to pay more attention to—wait for it—yep, repressed feelings or emotions. 

Now, I know what you’ve done. You kept your description short, empty, because you’re not ready to admit you’ve blocked your cavities, that you’re deeply repressed—but that’s why the burial happens in school fields, and in rugby fields, more specifically. I mean, come on—why no soccer, no cricket? Because rugby is crucial: Rugby is code for all of the things in school you despised. But now that you’ve crawled your way up onto the first floor of the white ivory tower, you’re ready to find that sweet gentle kid who used to exist before four years of trainings and Saturday morning matches, before the taste of orange at half time corrupted you; stained your lips. But that little angel is gone. It didn’t wait around until it was convenient. And somewhere in between all of the scrolling and all of the bellowing you’ve lost sight of who you are. You buried the original and left a lousy, half-smiling double who can be replaced by any slow-moving schmuck walking down Courtenay Place. 

So what to do? Your best hope, in all seriousness, is to buy a little house by the sea—preferably without an internet connection, and go find yourself. I know that’s probably not affordable, nor within reason of advice publicised to 14,000 readers, so I’ll say this instead: Stop digging, stop scrolling, stop smiling, you idiot. They’re lousy jokes, the people around you are clones, who deserve as little of your attention as you can possibly manage. Do what you want to do. 

Stop falling into line, soldier—you only get to play this game once. 


About the Author ()

Salient is a magazine. Salient is a website. Salient is an institution founded in 1938 to cater to the whim and fancy of students of Victoria University. We are partly funded by VUWSA and partly by gold bullion that was discovered under a pile of old Salients from the 40's. Salient welcomes your participation in debate on all the issues that we present to you, and if you're a student of Victoria University then you're more than welcome to drop in and have tea and scones with the contributors of this little rag in our little hideaway that overlooks Wellington.

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