Last night, the dreams spoke to me. Among the shades of the sparkled colours, I saw a house and a red forest. I was there and I was not. I swooped in, to find a cause to that beginning. I knew that something was odd, something didn’t fit through. But reasons seemed to drift away when I came close to them. A voice spoke to me from midst all that.
“Where are you?”
I went close to the house then, my movements almost instant. Time seemed to stitch in like dots rather than the continious flow. The highlights are all that remain as I try to speak up. But isn’t that how it actually happened? I don’t know.
“Where are you?” The voice called out to me, but I didn’t know how to answer to that. Maybe it was an illusion, or maybe the whole thing was. But for the time being, only the house and the red forest remained.
And the forest was full of light, in the shade of dark, in the curl of expectations, but out of bounds of any imagination. It seemed real; my touch instigated. So also the house, as I open myself through the doors and move in.
Was there anything I expected in there? Yes.
I desired to look at myself, to find the answers that confused me, to find the hope that all this was going to be okay. A house, a home, a shelter made me feel at ease, and I wished to find it there.
But all that I found inside was an empty space, filled with patched walls, painted ceilings, and a singleton piece of paper.
“Where are you?” The page read.
And again, I had no answer for myself. From inside that walled space, I instigated to look towards the forest, it’s ravages calling out to me, making me remember a piece of my memory.
I had been there before; before the world crumbled for me. It was the time death spoke to me about my brother, made me realize his importance. But did I say that to him?
I couldn’t. **Years of fighting and hatred and anger had brought us so close and drifted us so far that only distances seemed to bring forth the feeling of closeness and push away the chisel of despise. **
And even in that conundrum, in that script of memory, the voice called out.
“Where are you?”
This time, I knew the voice. It was me. It was calling out to myself. And, all this time, I had been too much caught up to realize the humor; the cancer had consumed too much of me, and time was the only factor that would now push me to revive old rejections.
The night spoke to me, taught me and left me in a pool of salvation that the warmth of life couldn’t ever do.