Silhouetted Dreams: An Existential Narrative of a Postmodern Man

The aura of self-deception she had created around herself shattered as soon as she realised the futility of her dreams. It was a self-constructed world of wishful thinking with no real substance to hold onto.  However, it was a world she had nurtured from her childhood – watching it grow inch by inch, moment by moment. How perfectly it had materialised and taken firm roots in her imagination. But now it was the time to face the inevitable truth – the reality of her world without dreams.

She had to pass through a continuum of all those unspent real moments which she had overlooked in the bright deception of her dreams. She had to prove her virtual existence in the living world. The world needed a proof of her presence, her reality without dreams. Can she survive without being oxygenated by her dreams? An unknown guiding instinct had apprehended her of the dangers of distractions in the way. She had to be on her watch.

She groped her way forward in the alley of her ego. She heard subdued whispers of her dreams behind and in hope, she turned back. It was a deception.  Another trick. A wave of numbness ran through her limb. It was turning into stone. She felt paralysed with the fear of having a lifeless leg. So, now even her movement was restricted. A pulsating silence overlaid her palpitating heart. Standing like this was useless. She could still save herself. A little more effort will make her cross this tunnel and then she will be free.

A few painful steps took her a little further. The moment she felt encouraged to see herself doing well, a bright light over her head bathed her whole body. It was too much of an attraction to ignore – dazzling light – hope. She looked up. An excruciating pain in her eyes forced her to turn her gaze away. She saw huge red clouds before her eyes, melting gradually into complete darkness. Another blow. She had lost her power to see. Despaired though she was, she blinked quickly, hoping to get a glimmer of light, even a tiny one.  For how many tortured moments she stood like that, she had no idea. Whether she had any power or not she had to move forward. She did, tasting the salt of her tears.

Suddenly she tripped over something – groveled and her hands touched the fresh wet grass. The touch enlivened all her other senses. She could smell the fluorescent flowers and feel the caressing cool breeze on her cheeks. Her hand got in contact with the velvety texture of budding flowers. She couldn’t resist anymore. She wanted to feel their magic touch on her face. Alas! She plucked a bunch and all senses came back to normal – no scent, no soft touch of petals, no breeze…. A tingling sensation on the tips of her fingers and then her right hand was as dead as a log. She had succumbed to her desires, to the dictates of her dreams and had once again experienced an irreparable loss.

She knelt on her knees and cried – pathetically, silently, profusely. For how many hours, she didn’t know. Perhaps she stopped when she ran out of tears. Then she took a deep breath and stood up with difficulty. What had she done to deserve this? This pain. What was the meaning of this pain? Yes, she had dreamt her dreams. Is dreaming a sin? Anger overtook her despair. In a single moment, she felt vicarious emotions – one after another – hope, despair, anger, peace, pain, fear, satisfaction.  A cyclorama of her whole life flashed before her eyes. It was a defining moment. Her pain got meaning. She dreamt to suffer and suffered to learn – a lesson for all moments to come.

That was the reward of dreaming as with pain came an insight, a tiny streak of light penetrated her heart. The light she could see with the eyes of her mind. An insight that would change her life forever.  After all, dreaming is not that bad. They are the silhouettes of our self and silhouettes vanish with the break of dawn and appear again with dusk. An endless chain of real dreams and dreamlike realities. She had started seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps, it was the darkness around her, which had affected her vision. She had never been blinded. Her limbs got warm. She could now move them without any effort. Perhaps it was the coldness of the tunnel which had numbed her leg and hand and now the warmth of her soul had put life in them. In few moments she would be away from this dark and cold alley of her ego. Free to feel, to be herself. There will be no end as there had never been a beginning.

A realisation. The drama of life comes to an end but dreams continue, leaving behind an imperceptible impression on the minds of their carriers. The carriers of silhouetted dreams.

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