An account

Some dreams are like old, abandonned cemetary; old bones laying under the soil, mostly forgotten but lingering still. I am in the old house, with my family. My sister and father are cooking, the table is dressed in the kitchen. Their part of it is bathen is a golden glow, but it fade before reaching my mother and me. Nobody seem to notice, and they bring the food to the table, and everyone get a hearty helpful of pan roasted potatoes and bacon bits. It smells wonderful, my family is joking around and laughting, but I cannot. Deep down, this feels sublty wrong, like I am seeing everything through a deforming glass. The food taste good, but my stomach is tight. I feel cold and remote, I want to leave. I wonder how many time my subconscious is going to dig up the ghost of my childhood and the corpse of my parent's marriage.