The ghosts behind reality

What would you say your dreams accounted for? Do you really sweat through the sheets when having a nightmare, or smile freshly when you find your paradise? I doubt.

Transition to dreaming has been the most weird thing for me. Nineteen years I was able to spend with no anguish in my escapades. It was sleep – pure and blissful. And then an entire cycle of daunting started.

Early in the midsummer heat were strokes not brought by absence of electricity

A fan buzzed to lull me to sleep, the ceiling curled with an toxicity

Situations in life that blacked me out with emblems of fear seeping in

I swear, caffeine overload is desirable over this nasty spell of dreamin’

Yesterday was a lady in the bathroom sitting over her own pee and writhing

Faced downwards her eyes pierced through, the bath felt the chill

Unacknowledged, that very fleshless hand shook out to steal whats mine

And I heard cracks down her skeleton my power got, her eyes turned to a carbine

A terrible dread encompassing all with what I kept sacred

But there it was: a dream of horrid realities and vast graves

Today was worse with train seats that sweat, none too close to a breeze

A man, unloving, I questioned of love, and in reply inhaled disease

Betrayal speaks no language beyond the fear already clouded in

‘Suspicious?’, God, no, only aghast of mortal sin

A terror that I’ve witnessed in action through my dreams – horrifying more often than not – is that through it all, I can actually read my own face in reaction to the information around me. The devastation apparent is so dreaded that it doesn’t wake me up with vapours of sweat on my pillow, but it fills me with so negative a vibe as to some twisted truth emerging from those very visuals.

Knowledge that I’ve gained through my very basic understanding of Psychology is that dream interpretation has vast scope, and holds sincerity. This is a subjective approach, for dreams that I face are the trepidations of my own belongings in sanity.

So it’s very clear: the apprehensions of situational existence produces suppressed emotions and reactions as dreams in those very moments.

I’ve attempted to converse to unleash monsters of repressed thought, but it just builds up my frustration over the uncontrollability of the entire episode.

The question now remains: how do I strengthen myself against powers I’m sending to destroy myself?




To think I’m doing nothing but disintegrating, at this point, over something that has muscled me up, is capricious in the most futile sense. Shit happens, and nothing is ever going to stop it from adding anxiety in that repetitive restlessness under my blanket, and I accept that more truly than my own capabilities, but to be writhing like this makes me feel weak.

Hitherto, like the sun that burns the eyes after having strained those very agents the entire night brazen, all I want is to shut down. I have my support, I have my will power, and I have a brain that has to go on a self abort mission every time I pretend to grow myself.

Moisture begotten, I relapse

Once, twice, ninety eight times a day

Boiling tea helps not the senses consuming it

Currents paralyse those very hands

And the tea cup falls to aftershock

After all, it’s nothing but demise

Etched on every coin I’ve earned

I put bullocks behind turning it over

To witness a curiosity on my drug enticing me to

Blink twice at the newspaper thrown in the balcony

At six without fail

Because the usuals seem abrupt

Screaming galaxies drawn of charcoal

Light shown twenty minutes back, but I withhold now

And there’s hair fallen around my legs

A small frustration scarred above my right eyebrow

Volcanoes erupting in narrowed eyes

And i relapse six storeys below.

Ash burn

Two:thirty five on a tuesday noon sounds harmless

Breathes more drowsy, perturbed

And twenty nine seconds later the iced tea

shakes from a breathless grasp

Eyes open to dream in a shock

Which haunts day by day, night by night

I sit with a dread, fire erupting everywhere

I call you – unreachable – unattainable

But aren’t you always? I’ve learnt it

‘Fucking run, run afar’ the walls tell me

Beneath my finger nail is ash, cold, from the flicker

I keep it stored in a jar now, right next to my toothbrush

The slap comes harder at night when I think of it

The cigarette that slipped down the emergency exit

Went nowhere as far as she did

Throbbing it over me, first, as a sign of hallelujah

She sings, ‘Hallelujah’, she sings

I kept her in the covers of a bundle, a friend basking warmth

She cut it dry with the side of her teeth

And tore through me, if only I am willing to submit the power

But I have walls of lie to cement

And so I sing, ‘Hallelujah’, I sing