The Dream
Preparing
to go somewhere—
tidying my space,
donating little dolls
to a friend’s daughter.
I was stacking slats—
grouping them carefully,
organising everything.
Then I noticed:
two photos
of my old boss
on display—
he was pulling
a silly face.
I laughed.
No photos of my partner,
but here was my boss,
grinning
like a clown.
—
Later,
I asked —
two former workmates,
and an ex-boyfriend—
for their passwords,
so I could
do some work
for them.
The Meaning
donating
Things I’ve nurtured but no longer need to keep. There’s movement. Release. Making space for what’s next to come.
sorting
I’m not lost—I’m sorting my inner life into neat piles. Not chaos—IKEA for my soul. Functional, intentional, slightly exhausting.
the clown boss
Romantic sentimentality? Gone. Absurd, outdated power figures? Still getting shelf space. I laugh at it, sure—but I also haven’t taken the photo down either. It’s a joke, but it’s also still taking up space.
password requests
I’m trying to access old systems— asking for keys to identities and relationships that aren’t mine anymore. Maybe I still want to help. Maybe I still think I’m needed. Or maybe I don’t know how to stop trying to work for people who don’t need or appreciate my energy?
What Lingers…
What if laughing at power is still a form of reverence?
What if what’s passed on isn’t safe, but still finds a way through?
Marginalia
When we consider ancestry, it’s impossible to ignore how much our environments and relationships shape who we become. What we pass on—and what we no longer need—isn’t always fit for purpose. Sometimes it’s not even relevant and other times downright harmful.
That’s a big responsibility. Our seemingly unimportant behaviours and offhand remarks can leave lasting impressions. Our words and actions hold weight. I explore this more in The monster inside.
