I’ve been having this dream on repeat recently
It’s of a bookshelf
Mahogany one that’s replaced the
Sure, sturdy, beige
of the IKEA pocket
Uniform, unerring side
Ordinarily, unique, still
And from this bookshelf from the deeper realm of my mind
fall books like
The adjectives in my shallow thoughts,
And I struggle to catch them in an attempt
to connect both sides of my mind
in a self-fulfilling prophecy – you see –
As I catch these books their titles remind me
Of my wisdom and distant memory.
Fairy tales and childhood wishes bring
memory of crushing castles (made of sand)
legends and myths galore of conquering
But audience, idealism doesn’t appeal to me,
And, in a fluid motion, a book leaps from its place
and falls on my hand.
It is followed by its siblings and
there is a reign-fall of of monarchy
of pain, and distrust.
For minutes, I am Minotaur,
Stuck in my labyrinth of thoughts
that are as inescapable as the literature
falling from my walls.
Volumes of Shakespearean wit or Wodehouse comedy
are meaningless without a mind to sift through their
elegant syntax or crafty puns.
I, as a reader, we, as readers
must navigate the maze of our own minds before
we set on to interpret what lies before us.
Finitudes and infinitudes
Of shoeboxes filled with wonders of the world, of beginnings of ends that
Are incomprehensibly, beautifully painful.
As I look up in my dream, I realise that the falling books are in
a two-dimensional plane –
Movie screen within the developing, volatile film we call dream.
I realize that Daedalus and Icarus’ strive to contain us
cannot succeed if we,
and I, find the third dimension.
I take a step