A handful of contemplation that was initially mere fancy. A bountiful of
thoughts that never saw the light of expression. A song that came to your lips
as a hum and didn’t budge until you could remember the perfect lyrics. An article/youtube
link you came onto that inspired the idealist in you for that iota of a second.
That flimsy cone of ice cream with your favourite flavour being sold on your
road to office.
That rose you chose, but could never give it to her. That
perfect first kiss which happened hundred times over already in your head. The
sweet revenge you waited for so long, but couldn’t play because that’s just not
who you are. All those times you said ‘no’ to something when you desperately
wanted to shout ‘yes’. Every sleepless night spent thinking/wishing/working
something that just didn’t let sleep win over. That seemingly ‘dead’ leaf that
delicately fell over you while walking just when you were about to give up on signs,
giving the belief a new life.
After all, if not for all of this, what would be there left
to the dreams to dream for?”
And suddenly the nib of the pen stopped midway after an inning of 10 minutes non-stop. But that’s how the Wench wrote. Impulsive, passionate squirt of emotions, to the point of diverting from the topic sometimes. But then, that’s how your thoughts-pumping mind (or heart?) works. Isn’t it?
Your mind doesn’t put categories (How good lingerie, or any
lingerie, should not be spoken about when talking about your favourite instant
mood lifters) or the elite ‘writer’ like finesse your piece should have (How I
should think about ice creams and popular flavours in the market first before I
can write about vanilla sex because that’s how an intro-body-conclusion
prototype go).
 |
A Dream Catcher.
|
Coming back to the topic of dreams, what if someone could be
not just a dreamer but a dream catcher as well? Getting curious with it, Wench
decided to give it a try too. So she picked up her bag and left for her
favourite yet most hated city, the topic for most of her dreams. Favourite because
she found her own set of wings there; and hated because at the end of the day,
it wasn’t her jungle.
Throughout the way, the excitement was watchable. She was
actually giggling sitting in her auto as the City of Concrete approached.
But after spending half-a-day and continuous efforts, she
couldn’t catch any of the dreams she had there. The entrance looked different,
they had put bars what used to be her favourite spot, the corner where she
buzzed often now felt strange and the people, her favourite people, even though
the same, did not feel familiar anymore.
Perhaps dreams are not yours once you’ve dreamt about them. For
you bring them into reality as you dream them, making them prone to changes, realization
and some more changes.
It’s been a while that Wench doesn’t get her trademark nightmares anymore.
awww... dreams are made up of dreams :)
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