Psappha's Dream (a short story)

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.. there stood she again staring down the narrow tunnel
of memories .. a twilight masked as the dusk covering her journey
as the quiet spider making its move toward her favourite book, for unknown reasons…
the invisible and uncontrollable rumble of the thinker...
lying in the bed… a silent flickering thought of how this world is unfair to itself..
.. or how the loved one seems to be so unfair or may be love
.. who remains awake looking at her from both corner of the highway..
and also leaves with every vehicle that passes this way.. but does it matter?..
her freedom… the facade so bright and clear
she is free, she thinks she is free… only escaping the torture of folded realities
.. who is thinking that thought?... gazing upon the shapes of the shadow laid upon by her dreams,
…??who is this dreamer gardening the flowers of outlined direction, directionless
caring if the outlook of freedom should look in a certain way, and if not, it's not fair
..engaged so deeply in that fear of the unknown, yet craving for the unfamiliar

direction? derivatives? distortion?

..that story she told herself as a counsel ..may be the void in me, will be filled by you
lost again in the stream of inter-relatability
she has forgotten the faces of the people she kissed in the rebellion against
something she hasn’t understood to the day..
…the flames have their own free will
… how is it winter again? I welcomed summer just yesterday

regularities? repetition? repression?

.. her dreadful eyes follow her everywhere, always watching
always knowing, all her thoughts, everything that she did
everything that she wants to think that she didn’t do.. unapologetically here
.. the other day she dreamt of a dreamer who could fold realities..
little fierce face, smiling lightly at her naked body, and her limited observations…
she remembers everything but the face…
almost like millions of flashing fears tightly together in important difference
of a puddle of cleverness in hiding her vanity
she forgot who she is

agony? awareness? awakening?

.. the unreal creatures, these thoughts, she tells in her story is
an intimidation play played by the universe without any meaning of being,
something should matter, but it doesn’t.. nothing ever matters, nothing did..
this appearance is a scrutiny.. the sharp corners, the rounded edges
a sallow gaze of the figures in the silent numbness of her lungs, death?
.. electricity? an ethereal stillness of the malign glow in a depiction that never fully did
justice to who she was, or is, or will be, or those projections of herself in her mind
but such depth in her vulnerability.. this unimportance of reality is what makes her
feel alive in the halo’ness of recurring resonance of HER music
..drinking the potion she made for herself to act forgetful

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