Mr Sandman

They say that retelling dreams is boring for everyone but the person telling it. This is an accepted fact, but then I am not holding a gun to anyone's head to read this. It's just that this is one of those dreams that even when I am writing this, I am not sure whether I am fully awake. The aftertaste lingers and the images vivid. So before the morning light pierces my room and erase all knowledge of it, let me record it. If only for preservity sake.



I was lying in bed. It was nearly dawn but there is no apprehension that comes with the new day so I suspect it was not a working day. I was talking to someone beside me. It must be in KL, for there are faint sounds of the morning prayers heard. I think it was my room. The bed seemed familiar but everything else was opposite to how it was set up.

She was talking to me. I know her but the angles and shots were such that I could see everything but her face. Maddening. The image was blurry around the edges. Annoying.

It must have been a year or two from now. The magazine on the bedside table showed it was December 2010 but I cannot vouch how long it has been there.

We were talking about our upcoming trip to London. How it had been planned for awhile, how we are so excited. Yada, yada. Also how it was a trip with intention which we chose not to reveal to our present employers. We were going to see whether we still liked it there and whether our respective interviews would bear fruit. Then we would move there permanently. I get the impression we have been there every year since we got back.

Fast-forward.

I was lugging stuff back to my old building. But instead of my own flat I was setting up in the flat below. The flat seemed used compared to the first time when I saw it, all brand new. But it was big. Lots of space. My old flat is occupied by a gymnast who apparently had installed some equipment that was hard to remove so that she could practice there. This seems perfectly natural in my dream and no one bat an eyelid. All the while she was by my side. Carrying her things. At one point she was carrying this lamp which kept blocking her face. For fuck's sake, enough already!

In my dream I recall resigning. The joy. I recall the informing the family. Slight disappointment but eventual acceptance. I tried and that's what that matters. Now I am living for me.

Fast-forward one month into settling down. It was a Sunday. I am recovering from a night about town. Sitting lazily on my couch watching nonsense. Swearing never to drink ever again. Groaning at the thought of Monday morning with the promise of two meetings scheduled. Dreading doing the laundry. But it was only 11am so there was plenty of time. I drank my tea, ate my biscuit. Then there was a sudden feeling of satisfaction. Like I was coming home. Happiness.

This is like that book called Sophie's World or Sophie's Choice, I can't recall which. It felt so real that I am trying to figure out whether it is suppose to mean something or just my inner desires coming out. Is this my hidden blueprint for the future or my unrealised hopes? Or is it the realisation that it is no longer taboo to migrate? Left so much of an impact that I feel somewhat raw. I will be pondering on this for awhile I think.