On Cyclic Dreaming

August 24th, 2005.

I open my eyes, my body still and shaken. I go to the bathroom, observe my moustache growth in the mirror, and switch the geyser on. I find a pen and this long-unused journal. It's 5:39 A.M. I start writing.

Two incredible things just happened. One – I've just begun writing here for the first time since my getting-over, moving-on rambling six months back. I had promised myself that the next time I was going to write, it would only be after I completely manage getting over Girl-A. I've never felt this as strongly as I do right now: that I'm not her anymore, no.

The second incredible thing that happened, making me wake up at 5:30 in the morning out of my warm, blanketed, slumber, never really happened. It was a dream. And, like all other dreams, a rather strange one. It mused about reality. I'm not afraid to write about it and I'm not afraid of being worried about how wild it might sound, and how carried-away, immature it might make me look.

The background: I meet Girl-B in the mountains. And now, as J. Alfred Prufrock put it, forcing the moment to its crisis, I've fallen in love with her.

Even if I later find this to be the over-reaction and the aftermath of a bad, mad dream, I can look back to this page right here, and edify myself on the fact that there really was a moment, though flawed and disillusioned as it might seem then, that I did fall in love. There are moments for every single event that occurs. Specially chosen, well crafted, properly allocated. Clockwork. If only we managed living proper events at proper times.

Dreams, and real-life illusions for that matter, tell you things. Their fantasies and fears reflect the people you aspire and fear to be. Only through dreams, do we encounter them. Like a knife cutting through from the core of an onion onto its crust, anything that happens sub-consciously, at some level, seems to come out from the piercings through the inner realms of your self, echoing truths you never knew you believed in. Dreams, maybe, are the purest form of truth that there ever is. Mine went something like this -

Girl-B (who I first found to be very complex, very subdued, and so, very intriguing) and I bump in each other at, of all places, Cafe-1, something which is very far from where we both live, but also somewhere we've both been to, at different times. How it happened, I do not know. Suddenly, two people I had not noticed earlier, seemed to be accompanying me - Friend A, and, funnily enough, of all people, Slut A. We appear to be having some sort of cake when I manage spotting Girl-B. In reality, in my pre-dream real-world life, I had confirmed earlier through Friend B and Friend C, that for a fact, my beloved Girl-B – was - indeed single! But then, as much as an inner insecurity from the sub-conscious taking the only true shape it can take, I see her with this guy. Now, in this particular dream, I appeared to have given clear hints about my fondness for her prior to this particular rendezvous, and she seemed to have not minded them. But now, upon my enquiries and against my wishes, she confirms my fears and kills my fantasy. "He is the thing to fall in love with", I hear her strangely unfamiliar voice say. Ouch. Just when I thought I'd outgrown heartbreaks. One glance, and to me, he doesn't quite seem like "the thing". He looks rather ordinary, and I wonder why. After all, this was just one of those dreams - essentially fictitious as we all assume them to be. For all I cared he might have allowed himself biceps bulging and an ass amicable. But he somehow didn't. He probably was a hidden echo of who I might become in real life in the recent future, from the real to the ideal.

She looks a bit older, her face pimply, and she's wearing a dress I've never seen her wearing before. She's looking more beautiful than I have ever known her to be. So much so, I have trouble recognizing her and have to allow myself a look into her eyes, pronouncing her name in a confirmatory, rhetoric tone to really know. She's embarrassed, throws me that "oops-ok-you-got-me","you-just-found-out-something-I-never-wanted-you-to" look. I greet out to him and shake hands. Don't think I can remember greeting out to anybody as warmly in real. Strange.

What I do next is turn back, step out of Cafe-1, and run. Just run. Unaware of the wheres and whys. Friend A overtakes me and runs ahead of me. His fury and hurt at seeing me like this is perhaps greater than mine. He keeps looking back and throwing me "told you she was weird" looks. There are lots of railings along our run-way. They probably meant something more than mere railings, but we decide to jump over them anyway, preferring to keep running - like 110M Hurdles on annual sports day at school. Slut-A catches up with me, and we run together. She showers me with consolatory words and, every now and then, cribs about how difficult it is to jump over hurdles, wearing the ultra mini-skirt that she is.

Between all the "told you she was weird" looks and kind consolatory words, there are things going on in my mind. I begin a conversation with myself - "this is like déjà vu." And funnily enough, in a dream.

And that's when the running ends and I reach my destination - reality. I open my eyes, my body still and shaken. I go to the bathroom, observe my moustache growth in the mirror, and switch the geyser on. I find a pen and this long-unused journal. It's 5:39 A.M. I start writing.