Dreams ...

Steam is rising in soothing spirals from the mug of tea my hand holds. The room is dark, except for my dear old lamp illumining the page I am writing on (yes, I wrote this on a page earlier ‘coz the internet wasn’t available … besides I like this way better ... there is nothing like a pen in your hand and a blank page in front to fill). And I am thinking about ... uhm ... dreams. Dreams … such a wonderful word … say it aloud to yourself … what a savoury delight it gives you. Your mind stirs up heavenly, glorious visions … you want to be lost in this pool, in this pensieve, of your dreams, no matter the time. Let it toll its knell. Let it tick. The surface ripples. More images rise up. Some of them you remember no longer … a mist fogs their view. Others you see through a broken, tainted glass. Some just newly woven, ready to be more dreamt about, more fantasized about, and to be embellished a bit more; a little something here, a little something there. A few of these dreams (or for some many), you know are never going to tread the bridge that leads the unreal to real. But you dream on. What makes you? How can you indulge yourself in this world of chimera? Escaping? Patting yourself to sleep while harsh, painful realities around you rage on. I know I’ll never understand. Perhaps it’s just a survival mechanism … protection from the innumerable harmful elements that surround. Or maybe it’s the act of complicating-what-is-simple that I am doing. Why not just stop questioning the why of it and just exult in the process. Of Dreaming. Maybe the urge has always been there … implanted in your brain, ever since you were born. Wait …

There is a wind coming my way. I can smell its characteristic unearthly fragrance … can feel it carrying me away. Let me then, just close my eyes and be whisked away to my Neverland. I can tell you, it is beautiful.


Written an hour later: If you cannot make sense of the above sentences, no need to worry. Sometimes, while trying to grasp the meaning behind things I confuse, mix up and render everything more unintelligible than before.I am not a philosopher or anyone else of that sort. It’s just that sometimes my thought patterns thread through hitherto undiscovered regions and I have to come back, on my own, by way of strange zigzagging pathways. Not that it isn’t exciting (okay, its all Rupert Birkin’s fault, in the book ‘Women in Love’ … he is fascinating … incomprehensible sometimes, yes, but still fascinating … not that I can match his incomprehensibility, ever. I am not even close).

Wait … sometimes my mind goes completely round the twist. I think I should just leave, before this gradually-going-haywire mind of mine sputters nothing else but nonsensical gibberish.