A distorted vision of clandestine ecstasy often beckons an individual like the residual images at the end of the dream, as one awakens and with the opening of the eye, the dreams flee; nervous lest they be caught and tied. Many try to beckon the image time and again, inducing it to return or to stay. Their answer may lay in Psychedelic drugs or slow labourous love making…whose later memories bring glimpses of undulating bodies to the rhythm of the heart-beat, shady afternoons and dusts in the filtered light through the ventilators; the dazzle of the stained glass painting. The hope and belief in the dream is reinstated by the broken vision. In silence, the drifting light may sketch shady patterns as the glass flips in its fall. I stretch to feel the threads of my fleeting dreams, but I know many do not desire so. They are content to wait till they fall asleep again. In my reach towards it, if I try just hard enough, I can also touch Silence.
Silence is claustrophobic when there is a storm within. Locked behind the door of screams and shudders and unknown droning voices, silence can only be the rusted latch which just will not budge. But, I have made peace with myself. I have loved and lost. In that loss, I have embraced silence and been in an adulterous love affair with this silence of mine. But the man I love has not left; not yet… he has drifted into the horizon, a pale vision now…his voice fading as the night swoops down to gather in her arms the victims of sleep. This is not a testimony of a broken heart. My heart is as whole as ever. What is to love if there is no pain?
Perhaps then, we may live in a world of make believe; of stories about Princes, the middle-class or paupers. We may weave dreams or fantasies. But many do not wish to reach out to those dreams but to only wrap the cloak of silence hiding in the fear of light. The abhorrence for failure forms a silken sheath which keeps the lust for the new at bay, and somewhere to try is forgotten. Had Midas not loved gold, would he have loved making all of gold? But in my tower, I weave alone…as I am encouraged to weave my dreams…it is not his favourite. But I am, so he lets me weave. And as I weave, I thread a needle with strands of silken silence. And gently, deeper into my dream, I fall.
Silence is not absolute. I seek to hear voices, to talk, to feel the voices weave around me poignant drops of dew. It is not my desire. It is my need, in the deathly silence of my tower. I blindly seek to talk, about anything…my feelings, my sexuality, my sensuousness...I hear immobile as it is clinically commented upon, my problems examined…I am glad. I have at least been spoken to. There are rules of speech, I discern. You may not hurt at a comment; a joke…fabled bonhomie. Or better still, you may remain comfortably numb.
Love commands devotion, it is believed. Where does this devotion lay? In following like the shariah all that it uttered in the best belief of wellbeing? …
