One night, I was in the dark, wheezing, perhaps not breathing at all. I could smell the dust, airless room around me. And the stench of moss—or the rotten bog, I wasn’t sure.
My body blended in with it. And all I knew was both of my hands were reaching the air, vigorously, without my command. It went for a while, just like that. I turned my head behind then I found myself standing on the edge of the roof, a thirty-floor tower, in a blink of eye.
Strange, that’s what I told myself. But I kept going, examined the light after the shadow. A pair of my hands on their back, palms facing the ground. There was no wind, no sound. A glimpse of orange above my head showed the splendor of the city. Right there, right under my eyes.
I hunched, understood that, a little nudge on my back would bring my sorrow soul down to the height. I found my heart pounding, mightily, hammering my ears, boom boom boom.
Height never was my friend. Hatred, to be sure. I’d prefer to be on the ground, though it means I’ve got to smell the human’s garbage, the waste, the sediment. Still wondering with those questions, something stung the side of my head. It happened in a second, a needle, sharp like an arrow. It landed just above my left ear, by a distance of one fingernail. Thereafter, I found myself in bed, literally in my own bed; sighing and almost cursing, that it was all just a dream, again.
They said everyone needs a dream. I don’t.
The old ones said a dream has meaning, a sign of warning, the future, the world under the living. No, it’s not.
I even did a few online research, they stated, a dream is a succession of images, ideas, emotions, and sensations that usually occur involuntarily in the mind during certain stages of sleep. Might be right, but it’s not.
A dream is like a silent road near the dark swamps. You don’t know whether you walk in the morning, or at night; whether you are alone, or with someone; whether that road is safe/unsafe to bring you home. It haunts me every night. They keep coming, with fear, horror, illusion, unreal things. But mostly a terror, and poison my mind, gradually.
Every time I close my eyes, I know I’m always awake at the same hour. It has been repeated over the last a hundred days. I can still remember some, the rest has disappeared as the sun goes around the whole town. Perhaps, I’ve been loved by the dreams. I enjoyed it, before. But it seems real day by day, and it starts chasing me.