Yesterday is history, and today is a mystery.

You’re very dreamy; you’re not living in the present world. Mother knows. It’s weird, some people dream only twice or thrice a year, but for me – it’s almost everyday that I have a dream. This morning, I was caught in another: I was a person, perhaps myself, or a character, having my own thoughts and controlling my movements. When Mom came into the room to wake me up for work at 7-ish in the morning, I couldn’t open my eyes and leave the bed: but I could speed up the pace of the dream; and when it ended, it was almost as if my soul was running back into my body – because immediately when the dream finished ‘screening’, or projecting itself on my mind, the supposed blank screen, I sprang up, opened my eyes, and headed straight to the toilet to wash up. How peculiar; I could hear my mother’s voice trying to wake me up – almost as if she were calling my soul back to my physical self. The strange occurrence doesn’t stop there though, because I lost my thoughts in a daze while brushing my teeth and after what seemed forever, I snapped back to reality, only to end up having no recollection on what I dreamt of at all.

Surely I could have scored better in History back when I was schooling. If it were more interesting – per se, were it on the type of dances in the Victorian era, examining every minute detail in masquerades, and grandeur. Has anyone ever wondered what sort of dance to do, were they at the ball? Was there a chance you could have been a Cinderella from that era? How do they love, how do they romanticise every single thing that withered, and turn them into such melancholic sleeping beauties? What sort of dress for the occasion, and a thousand and one possible things to happen on one very special night? What would happen should they rebel against the rulers, and visualise everything, running these thoughts through their mind? Or perhaps during war times, falling in love with a soldier? And being in a hopeless relationship with one, dancing to the drunk melody of sorrow till they bid farewell in dawn, and have them return at dusk a body as red as rose, yet a flower as drained and withered, piled like a bouquet over a plaque at the grave? To watch the body lowering to six feet under, only to end up leaning against the tough yet tender chest of his best friend, who vows to love you as deep as his gone-with-the-wind friend lays? Or what if you were a part of the native Indian tribes, worshippers of Nature? Those who guard the earth’s safety fiercely, and respect all as equals.

So here’s all I’ve got so far, before my thoughts wander off again tonight. And from all these adventures and escapades, perhaps the only reassurance seems to be that one day, I might, possibly, conquer lucid dreaming. Creating a safe haven in my mind, goodness gracious. I might master (and very possibly get my Masters in), to put it nicely, the art of escaping. If not, I’m afraid – I might have gone mad by then.


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