Stream

Breaking out into a wild dance of joy. Thumping desks, mouth wide open in silent laughter. Hair in disarray, the theme is picked up, mutated and carried on. Dreams that won’t stop, reality that goes on. Waves wash a distant shore and the roar in a shell is ignored.  Eyes meet across new media, seas of soup separate. Recognition is fear. Each search leads to shunya, but the quest is a path in itself. Why seek outside yourself? March on, and leaves on trees remain as in August.

Slipping on ice

I’m really uncoordinated today. Worried about the tan shoes, pink tank, brown sweater, black coat, giant black bag. It doesn’t go. This irritates me. 

I’ve run out of food in my room, and the wind is somehow cutting through my multicoloured scarf. I’m catching a cold. Hot boy walking next to me is talking, but since he doesn’t have more than two brain cells in his head, it’s easy to tune him out and just look at him. A dimple flashes, and I nod at him. Satified, he natters on. No doubt about the last time he got drunk, or this weekend’s game. Seriously, does no one have stories outside those two?

My career is heading downhill, I can’t seem to hold on. I know nothing, less than nothing, and what I know is probably wrong. Mendel’s laws are overthrown, stupidity is upheld as a virtue, epigenetics and cancer. My horizons are broadening, the land shifts beneath my feet and I am barely keeping my head over the water. Nothing fits right. I’ve hit the dreaded 60kgs. 

The world is changing. I want coffee. No one makes chai here, and I just want to return to the womb. But here I am, sharing personal space with a random guy who has nothing but a few genes and a whole lot of harmones going for him, politely pretend-listening, but really cataloguing everything that isn’t the way it ought to be.

Patch of ice. My head was turned towards the hot guy. On the sidewalk, looking up at a flustered, concerned him, ice below.

I don’t think I have the energy to pick me up again. 

—

Not quite fiction, but it isn’t all fact either. The boundaries blur.

Dream =? Reality

Every time I dream of him, he gets more and more real. This is the fourth time that I remember that I knew it was him, and now I don’t even know that he’s any different from all the others that populate my imagination.

He’s ruining me for real life, for the run of the mill nice guys, for the assholes. 

I’ve always been terrified of seeing his face, because once I did, it would be IT. Ka-splash. Camphor falls. End of story.  So why do I feel bad that he doesn’t exist?