Night time dream.

I sat very quietly in the bright orange plastic tent, as the little boys with painted faces and silver hair laughed and screamed obscenities at the preacher who was standing on a plain wooden box. The preacher was from the past. He was wearing a straight black coat and white shirt buttoned up to his throat.

Nothing was right about the surroundings. The orangeness of the plastic was repulsive. Suddenly, he inhaled deeply and began to preach. His sounds were harsh, yet melodic and comforting. I had within me a strange desire to get closer to hear his words, but as I approached, the preacher slowly began to melt into the orangeness. His words turned sour — and all was wrong with his being. Even his own narrow tie seemed to choke the words from his mouth. Yet, motionlessly I sat and uttered not a word. I watched from within myself.

The orangeness was too bright. The little boys were too loud, their silver hair too gold. Music rocked loudly through the orange plastic tent. I began to laugh and dance and screamed obscenities at the man who was standing on an old wooden box. The preacher with all his sour goodness just melted and shrunk slowly, very slowly into the nothingness of the plastic.

I was sorry to see him go, although I wasn’t quite sure why. I had a feeling — a vague and distant idea that without him the tent and all would flare into flames and be undone. This thought, however, quickly vanished and as he melted away I became quite small with a painted face and silver hair. “Wait! Stop!” I shouted inside myself.

His disappearance cut at my soul. And my appearance cut even deeper. I danced with the little boys, I was a little boy, I screamed obscenities at all who entered our tent. I was now one of the boys.

What do you think?