Brexit Dreams: An excerpt, translated from French

Dream 5

            Last night, I was in Cuba again. Just on the edge of a beach. I was talking with my partner and one of his friends, Chuchi. I was watching the beach. It was calm, no music, not many people. And yet, despite everything, a festive air.

            Thoughtful, wondering what was contributing to such a relaxed, joyous atmosphere, I followed my two companions and started walking along the sand. We got to a long path made out of wooden boards, painted white. This path was parallel to the shore, about fifty metres from the water and covered, all the way along, by a canopy. When we had just started down the planks, Chuchi - who was in the lead - stopped. An image of the Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre was displayed just above him, in brilliant yellow. Chuchi made the sign of the cross in front of the patron saint of Cuba, and my dream came to an abrupt end.

            I prayed. Prayed not to get it wrong. Prayed not to make, professionally, the biggest mistake of my life.

            As a psychoanalyst, I receive men, women and children in my consulting room in the centre of London. I listen, with attention, to the dreams of each. Here, I am writing down my own. The beach in Cuba. The long path. The white passage, that I have rushed down, in a state of celebration.

            Freud used to work on his dreams alone, and through a written correspondence with a friend. I have chosen to share mine. I have chosen to publish them. I have decided to accord them the place they were looking for: outside, in the fresh air, buffeted by the wind, becoming intoxicated in the sky, on contact with the ocean.

            If I leave, my dreams will go with me. But who will listen to those of the people who come to consult me in the centre of London?