Ramblings #10 - I Dream of Panini

I hate dreams.

To clarify – not all dreams. Some dreams are more aspirational than most, and lead to a heavy fall. For example, if I dreamt of having a sandwich and woke up feeling hungry I could easily make one or just forget it. But what about the others? The ones which lift you up above the clouds and into the sun, only to then burn you from the inside out?

I hate those with a passion, as right now I nurse a wound at the core of my soul – a wound born out of lost goodbyes and unwanted action. I do not know when I slept, though I did see when I did wake. But in between, was possibly the sweetest and most terrifying thing that could happen to any human being, one so sickening that death becomes a merciful release.

Even as the memory of it grows faint, the feeling whispers into my heart. I know I fell in love. I know I fought for it, and she fought for me. Maybe that was when I should have realized the lies. Lies your brain and heart conspire behind your back to torment you.

Fainter and fainter, and I be the fool trying to grab onto a rope moving beyond my reach every second. Soon even the rope may be gone, this pain may have fled. But why? Why even show me the rope? I could have been perfectly happy without knowing it existed. This is a cruel joke and nothing else masked in the disguise of a romantic tale.

When the illusion finally shattered and I was back in the cold unfeeling world, you know what my first reaction was? Maybe I could find her again there. The ‘real’ world. I was brimming with possibility, whereas somewhere Dream and Nightmare were sharing old wives’ tales over a cup of the million deprived and relived minds that was overflowing. Maybe they stare in amusement right now as I write this.

You, oh endless. You stole from me. Or if it was your world, and you gave me passage – why did you cast me away? And Dream, why must you be the ones to guide me. The one that gives me a glimpse of the finest wine of that paradise only to then close the doors and lead me back to the muddy water I came from. Atleast Nightmare is kind. His pain is brief, and relief is forever. His land is one you want to escape from, and can.

We are but playthings of Gods. And if not them, we play with ourselves – our hopes, our dreams, our desires, our fears. And nowhere else is that more apparent than when we sleep. So peaceful, so helpless – and we become marionettes to our own minds. Simple puppets to be used and thrown away.

And my tears are not for ‘real’ people………. but oh god, they were real to me…oh god, they were everything to me. Soon I may forget, but right now even when name and deeds are lost to me thanks to the ‘merciful’ amnesia Dream provides, how can you stop me from feeling. The heart remembers even when the mind can’t. And the heart grieves.

All is gone. All is lost. Despair those who dream!

And the cycle repeats.