I had a dream last night. Several, really, but one was really… odd. I remember the dream I had before waking up more clearly than the one that was the most important, but something in a book I was reading reminded me very clearly. It was a description of scars.
And last night, for the first time, I dreamed of having a flat chest with scars. Flat chest is nothing new, in fact, most of the time when I dream, my chest is flat, or very close to it. But last night, I dreamed I was shirtless. I was doing something, in the woods, and I removed my shirt. I had surgery scars arcing across my chest, ridged up, and a pale pink-purple, like I had been swimming and was cold, which I may have done. They were fascinating. Their texture under my fingers and across my chest felt like stitches holding a doll together, like someone had cut me open and stuffed me full of good ideas and happiness and sunshine and they sewed me back up with thick fishing line, but that was okay, because it was mine. They were fantastic, and they were mine. Someone walked over to where I was, my friend or mother or someone, and they talked to me not as a male, not as an androgyne, but as if they could tell that despite my flat chest and scars, I was feeling feminine. They used “she” when they turned back to their companion, they told me I was in very good shape for a woman my age, and they didn’t stare at the scars in horror, but as one appreciates fine art.
I wish it wasn’t a dream.
This is a very beautiful dream!