Unbridled Dreams
i. I saw seven moons in my dream last night: five crescents and two full moons. I am standing atop the building which had made me dizzy and sent me down a spiral of psychedelic patterns when I was just a 5 year old. The building did not scare me in my dream. I felt no fear. But I had a chill going down my spine every time I looked up the moons, the nagging feeling that the world is ending. Do we care about the outer world when our own world has ended? I can’t tell. Not in my dreams at least.
ii. I always find mandalas intriguing. My best friend’s grandmother narrates the story of a funeral in her village. Every time someone dies in her village, a group of women come home, go round and round in a circle and wail. Unknowingly, I imagined those women with their hair open, going around in a circle, and forming a mandala. When I die, I want to have women going around in seven circles on my funeral; five times in half circles and two times in full circles.
iii. I should turn my dreams into stories now. I have started enjoying them despite the weariness it brings along. There is a sweetness in feeling broken, one where you don’t feel like fixing yourself. How long do I fix myself? How long do I bring together parts of me that do not belong to me anymore?
iv. Poetry is suffocating. Poetry also breathes life into my words. How do I always manage to live in two extremes? How do I never find a balance? How do I differentiate between my unbridled dreams and the cruel realities?
