Dream Journal: Entry I

I'm not much of a writer. But I get dreams. Like the other day , I had this dream and I shall pen it down before it disperses into thin wisps of memory. Memory , after all, is so fragile. So, this is what I saw. I write it in first person and relive the dream again. If you ask me what kind of a dream it was, I wouldn't be able to say.



A fine stream of plunges through the edges of the rough, worn-out curtain into the darkened room. Dust particles swirl in the light, mad, hypnotic movements. The beam gets sucked into the fathomless black of the room. The room is uneven: scattered canvases, rusty old pails and paintbrushes, dried up colour on the palette that look like festering wounds of a long lost war. But, no one can see them, the unevenness, the dilapidation that stays in the room. In the uncertain darkness that has congealed inside the room, you step on oddly-shaped objects on the floor. But the window is on the other wall, across the room. So, stepping on unknown debris, you make your way towards it. You drag your palm over and along the wall, Your fingertips come to a halt at a frame. A photo frame may be? Is it old and gilted? You don't get to know yet. Not without the light. The light towards which you're walking. The light that is hidden behind the curtain and the window pane. Dust enters your eyes. Settles in your lungs. Is grainy in your mouth. You're choking. Choking. Choking. Sucking in air. Sucking in the musty air of the old room. Breathing out, breathing out the warm dust that has entered your lungs. Sending ripples through the stagnant air of the old room.You draw a long breath. Draw two. Three. Five. Six. Nine. The suffocating clot inside your head untangles itself from a tangle of murmuring thoughts. you continue walking. Walk. Walk some more. You step on something. Crunch! Crack! Noises come alive under your foot. You reach. The other wall. You take the worn-out fabric in your hands. Threads get stuck to the edges of your long, sharp nails. You push them away. And there is your you. 


You handkerchief smelling estranged lover, there's a paint brush sticking out of your heart.