A TREMOR ON DREAMS

Someone I admired one told me that my breath contains sadness. That,the way I breathe is like a dance, a foot of despair and the other of melancholy.
"Why are you so sad", she had asked. I didn't know what to say.  I couldn't say a sorry for making the air surrounding her impure. I stood there, like i Iost my tongue inside a conversation and everything is my fault.
May be I didn't want to be pitied. I knew she had a golden heart. That she was more like an angel than a human. But I didn't utter a word, and asked myself to wake up, so that I can try to remember that this is just a dream.
Dreams as in the midnight dreams, the uninvited guests with black gleaming shoes and foggy faces, with codes of insanity puffed in their mouths _not the ones that you see for yourself. The ones that pole dance in the midst of rebellious silence of full moon nights. The ones that are beautiful and tragic as the suicide letters of poets. The ones that slip away at the very moment you open your eyes- the monsoon hair fall you forget over a cup of elaichi chai.
Praying for a midnight dream to go away is  not as difficult as remembering one. There are chants glued by our mouthers in the roof of our mouths to make these poor creatures turn away. But, streaks of light of a morning goes backwards whenever I try to recollect  a dream. What we will remember is a wordless emotion,a coldness inside our veins, some the smudged faces inside a pond. In some dreams, I am a twin. Same by brown eyes and anaemic fingers. No sandals. Four feets like roots attached to ground. Unable to move when the ghosts run towards me/ us. Tongue tied and helpless.
I once saw a dream where my mother was a ghost and was also a human. Mothers and the roles they play. In the dream ran away, because the human mother couldn't believe that there was a ghost.  Next morning I looked at her and when she asked what I want I stayed silent. I didn't tell her the things I remembered from last night's dream. I wanted to forget the fear, of losing her and her  cruelty of making me run away by not trusting me. My distance was, after all,  reasonable.
 Another time I saw myself in the tip of a Victorian church I have never visited, my feet firmly clinging to the black stone. It wax raining and when I looked below, there was a creature, half my mother and the other half my father , waiting for me to jump, so that it can catch me. One hand firm and hairy, the other smooth and slender. Ultimately I didn't jump. May be because I didn't want to be saved. May be I was sure to be strangled by that hands after being saved.

It is easy to be inside a dream, caked with ambiguity rather than choosing to live. But who is going to dream of me? What will I be in those dreams: living or dead?

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