moonlit dreams

I wake up star­tled at the sound of a car honk­ing. It is 2 a.m.

I turn the lights on and look around. I am home, in­side the mos­qui­to net, star­ing at the pink stained walls. The bed feels too hard on my back. I can­not tell how long I’ve been here, maybe a few days or maybe I nev­er left. Above my head still sits the gold­en clock that ticks loud­er than its size. The night is still once again, but I hear sounds – the oc­ca­sion­al whin­ing of a dog, the night watchman’s stick bang­ing the iron gates, and of course the in­ces­sant tick­ing of a clock. The light from the street lamp bleeds in through the fad­ed cur­tains. The cur­tains that once or­na­ment­ed the room now hangs like a sore sight, weighed down by the bur­den of all my se­crets, my youth, con­tin­u­ing to hide the shadows.

Shad­ows are still trapped in that room, with­in the folds of the cur­tains, on each shelf of the study ta­ble still lined with lit­tle trin­kets that were birth­day gifts from dear­est friends. I could not have left. Mo­ments ago I locked my­self in the dark­ness of that room to study for my up­com­ing test. With only a desk lamp on, I sat at my desk, look­ing out the win­dow star­ing at the moon think­ing there is some­one out there gaz­ing at the same moon maybe at a dif­fer­ent time with dif­fer­ent thoughts. The moon con­nect­ed us all.

Here I can­not help but think of these lines from a Nicholas Sparks nov­el, ‘And then I feel as if I’m wit­ness­ing a mir­a­cle, as ever so slow­ly she rais­es her face to­wards the moon. I watch her drink in the sight, sens­ing the flood of mem­o­ries she’s un­leashed and want­i­ng noth­ing more than to let her know I’m here. But in­stead I stay where I am and stare up at the moon as well. And for the briefest in­stant, it al­most feels like we’re to­geth­er again.’

You have al­ways known my love for the moon. That just might be the rea­son you woke me tonight, to re­mind me I am missed, to in­vite me back. I see a shad­ow pac­ing the room. I can hear the end­less ban­ter. I can feel the fluffy dreams flow­ing, laugh­ter ring­ing, tears pour­ing, the mad­den­ing urge to get out, be free. The shad­ow that lurks here tonight looks vague­ly fa­mil­iar. It tries to ges­ture to­wards the win­dow and as I ap­proach it, I see the moon, from the very same spot, and the re­al­iza­tion dawns on me. I was free in­deed, to live, to love, to dream. I saw the moon, but I failed to see the stars.

And I laugh. For now I live, but it wears me out. I love, but it hurts. I dream, only with my eyes closed.

I close my eyes. The shad­ow seems to dis­ap­pear. The mat­tress no longer feels hard. I hear the clock tick­ing. I smile. It was all a dream. I have a test to­mor­row and I tell my­self the moon can no longer dis­tract me. Dreams start to lose their way with­in the rus­tle of pa­pers as I pre­pare my­self for life.
 

—mala paul

Flom­mist Mala Paul is a pro­tégé of the god­dess of ten hands. Form to form­less all in a day’s job. A moth­er, de­sign­er, dancer, food­ie, fash­ion­ista, blog­ger, who is al­ways ready to be the change. Copy­right © 2016 Mala Paul.

MOR D’ARTÍCULOS  MOR FLOMM !

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