Memories of
my childhood linger like the previous night's moon, which crept through my pale
green window curtains and gave me, as I slept, a calm, gentle, and thoughtful
smile in my dream, through its hazy beams as if penetrating through the thin
layer of mist.
Still, I
remember that dried and tremendously deep well in my homeland and how its mouth
was covered with all of those fallen leaves of the season. A girl braiding a
twin tail was lying on the trunk of an old elm tree. Humming music and slightly
closing her eyes, she felt how the setting sun stroked her bright, clean
forehead like a pair of soft hands. Beneath her tails was the remaining
afterglow and warmth of the setting sun.
Analysts have
had their go at humor, and I have read some of this interpretative literature,
but without being greatly instructed. Humor can be dissected, as a frog can,
but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but
the pure scientific mind.