Relativity in Dreams

March 23rd, I wake up from a dream 12 hours long, after a night of 7 hours. Day after day I remember dreams far, far too long. A week later, my dreams took a month but I was back by morning. In time, years seemed to go by.

Soon I was gone for longer and longer, I sought council- doctors, shaman and mystics, but the dreams pulled longer. They weighed on me, pulling my sleep down, down through my bed, breaking into the earths core.

Years of cramming for a test, flying through glass doors, when I came back it felt like decades but they talked to me like it hadn’t been two days. You fear of course, dreams that grow to centuries, millennia in vortex and reading though life in subtext.

You can’t live a million years and come back, the horror of real life.

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Farm sights

A frog leaps into his pond

Now long gone,

Firefly on my fingertip

In a place I did not know.

A mysterious letter

I was walking home the other day, it was 10:47 and pouring. Unbeknownst to me my phone had taken a few interesting decisions.

Between 10:45 to 10:47 I received several calls from an Uber driver it had ordered. I never noticed and the Uber guy cancelled. For all our troubles Uber had charged us 47 rupees. Naturally I was quite annoyed, and while running water for a bath I noticed there were several other apps that had been opened while I thought my phone was safe in my pocket.

Mostly nonsense, of course, it had opened a few notes. The first was the Uber guys number, the URL for an ad. It had chosen a background- leaves and a green tone, some superfluous feature I never even knew it had. The second, bare note, was what was interesting though. In that note between the “BBBBbbbbgggF”, the “wheeeeeeeeeeenghdf” and other clear indications of falling asleep at the screen, there’s someone pouring their heart out.

It takes a bit of deciphering but between all the button mashing, there’s a letter. It’s like a page from a diary, a long conversation between friends something you wouldn’t forget. Yet I’ve not read that note before, a story about a senior and dealing with friends, a log from someone I don’t know on my phones. There’s no sharing feature, no names and no trace beyond a 10:47 time stamp. Just someone’s deepest, darkest thoughts they wouldn’t even share with a journal, brought to my phone between rain and a walk.

 

Watchman, Punch-man

The man had dedicated himself to looking away. It did not matter when or who walked out the store, you would see his back facing you, his face staring intently at something across the street, his arms were folded for effect. Perhaps not the best course of action for a watchman, but that’s how he was.

I always made it a point to hand my bills to him, which pleased him greatly. Maybe he was so firmly turned to the road because other patrons weren’t polite enough to handover their bills so that he could punch them. Today he informed me that it was raining. An odd thing to do I suppose but rather insightful of him. I’d hardly been paying attention to the fact that it was poring outside the store. I wonder how he figured that out.

The supermarket had new hoardings welcoming people in Koramangla. Of course nothing else in the store was new. People stopped their bikes and scrambled under the store’s awnings. They murmured and muttered, careful not to get too loud.

The surge of people felt threatening, the watchman punched his punch machine aggressively, perhaps marking his territory. It worked, people seeped out before the rain had really let up and he was back to staring at the road. Perhaps not a satisfying ending but I thought it was as curious entrance he ended up making between a day dream of mine.

Arcane Fire

Hypnosis by fire is not just for moths. Fires pull in people, fires become the beating heart under cities, fires gathered stories from primordial men fleeing the night.

It might have begun with a power cut- after life mostly bubble wrapped in modernity, he might have noticed the candle light drawing in insects. The light stays with you after you close your eyes, if you concentrate that is. Behind closed windows, far and towering above him, hounding him into a cold evening, he could still see orange lights tinging the curtains.

Madness, nostalgia or instinct? Maybe all- fire starter, Pyromaniac.