Of what dreams may withhold
To dream is to live, or is it the other way around?
*
Tiny beads of sweat form at the edges of my eyebrows as I drive down memory lane. Memories I had chosen to forget rise from their neglected graves. They don't scare me. I don't let them. They follow a jagged path- the sweat, the memories and my car- over uneven surfaces. Familiar surrounding, unfamiliar faces; I don't care for either. The sweat breaks at my parched lips. It's salty and I feel alive.
Not much has changed. The road is still unpaved; the hill overlooking it is still rocky but green, and a small plot of land is still full of rubbish. An odd building or two have sprung up where small gardenless bungalows once stood. Everyone sells out at some point of time.
Some things, it seems, never change. I take a deep breath as I press the brakes slowly and the car eases to a stop. I unhook the seat belt and slowly step out. As I stretch, the glare of the sun on my face makes me flinch. A warm breeze hits my face and I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a sleeve. I look up at the forlorn building and memories of a long forgotten time rear up, waiting to strike. Taking long, quick and assured steps I leave them behind, looking down at pebbles as I walk. I wouldn't want to fall.
I walk under the circular, doorless arch, and up the unevenly spaced steps. Two floors through the nakedness of incomplete construction that I now see, a dream that couldn't become a reality - I am on the terrace. Years ago, it was here that I had once hoped, once dreamt; it was here that the desolate nakedness of reality had been cloaked.
It's hotter up here, but I still do not care. I do not care for the heat, or for the once buried memories of a naïve past that have reared up again. And then they strike: This is where I once lay and dreamt of happier times, of easier times, of determination, and of the infirmity of obstructions. This is where I dreamt of overcoming all opposition, of reaching unrealistic heights. This is where the cool breeze kissed me, and where the music lied.
*
I do not dream anymore, for dreams only render the illusion of satisfaction. I do not dream because dreams lie. I lied to myself when I dreamt - of an existence that did not exist, of a consciousness that did not prevail. I was a boy and I was a god. But there isn't a god that exists and there isn't a dream that is reality. I choose to do, not to dream; happiness and satisfaction lies in doing.
Of dreams- I have none.
*
Tiny beads of sweat form at the edges of my eyebrows as I drive down memory lane. Memories I had chosen to forget rise from their neglected graves. They don't scare me. I don't let them. They follow a jagged path- the sweat, the memories and my car- over uneven surfaces. Familiar surrounding, unfamiliar faces; I don't care for either. The sweat breaks at my parched lips. It's salty and I feel alive.
Not much has changed. The road is still unpaved; the hill overlooking it is still rocky but green, and a small plot of land is still full of rubbish. An odd building or two have sprung up where small gardenless bungalows once stood. Everyone sells out at some point of time.
Some things, it seems, never change. I take a deep breath as I press the brakes slowly and the car eases to a stop. I unhook the seat belt and slowly step out. As I stretch, the glare of the sun on my face makes me flinch. A warm breeze hits my face and I wipe the sweat off my forehead with a sleeve. I look up at the forlorn building and memories of a long forgotten time rear up, waiting to strike. Taking long, quick and assured steps I leave them behind, looking down at pebbles as I walk. I wouldn't want to fall.
I walk under the circular, doorless arch, and up the unevenly spaced steps. Two floors through the nakedness of incomplete construction that I now see, a dream that couldn't become a reality - I am on the terrace. Years ago, it was here that I had once hoped, once dreamt; it was here that the desolate nakedness of reality had been cloaked.
It's hotter up here, but I still do not care. I do not care for the heat, or for the once buried memories of a naïve past that have reared up again. And then they strike: This is where I once lay and dreamt of happier times, of easier times, of determination, and of the infirmity of obstructions. This is where I dreamt of overcoming all opposition, of reaching unrealistic heights. This is where the cool breeze kissed me, and where the music lied.
*
I do not dream anymore, for dreams only render the illusion of satisfaction. I do not dream because dreams lie. I lied to myself when I dreamt - of an existence that did not exist, of a consciousness that did not prevail. I was a boy and I was a god. But there isn't a god that exists and there isn't a dream that is reality. I choose to do, not to dream; happiness and satisfaction lies in doing.
Of dreams- I have none.
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