Saturday, July 4, 2009

Dream, Dream, Dream

The stairs were steep and winding. I am bracing myself to climb them. After few contemplative moments, I raced up the steps reaching the precipice in no time. The clouds hung low and the air felt sharp and cold, like splinters of glass. I raised my arms up to the sky feeling a strange mix of euphoria and fear. There was a deep valley below my feet. Undulating and sinister. Suddenly the hair on my neck crawled, something has gone amiss. I look back and find that the stairs are not there. They have disappeared and I was confabulating with a suffocating altitude, standing on the brink of a deathly fall.


I wake up with a start and rub my hurting hand as my foggy senses get acclimatized to the inky darkness of my bedroom.
I realize that I had just knocked the glass of water at my bedside table and had hit my hand against the sharp edge of the table.
I am still alive. I am in my warm and cozy bed. Comfortable and safe.
But the pain is real!

I often think that the world of dream has so many mistakes. It is never prefect. Perhaps I love mistakes, that’s why I dream so often. While sleeping or waking, I dream always. My wakeful dreams are connived.
Or rather manufactured by me.
They are essentially an escape. A retreat for my soul.
And the dreams that I dream while sleeping are the unpalatable thoughts, fears, flaws and lonesomeness that I push behind all day long. Sometimes I am at a deserted, unknown place, not knowing how to get out from there, next moment I am running on a railway platform trying to catch a train!

I dream that I am sitting at the classroom of my old school, taking my Math exam and staring impassively at the question paper. Can’t figure out a single sum. I will fail, I think. Next moment I am at a concert, smiling blankly at people I don’t know.
There is never a symmetry or sanity to the occurrences in dreams.

But still the dreams always provide that getaway. That peacefulness.

Even nightmares are comforting. Because when we wake up, we take a long deep breath and say, ‘Thank God it was just a bad dream.’

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Aftercry


On the grey stone pavement lies a patch of rain,
like muslin on a doctor's face.
The clouds that go floating upon the jagged winds are torn to shreds,

There is a bruised haze over the western sky...

Some leftover drops fall from the ragged clouds.
Hot tears from cold blue eyes.

Kindled

Last night You wrote your sonnets in  Braille: the commas, parenthesis,  Ellipses... engraved perfectly on my skin- and I  w...