Dreams. Literal dreams, the ones you get in your sleep. Or perhaps in your half-sleep? As of lately, my dreams keep interfering with the reality, at night, in the middle of the day, anytime. The state where you drift off for no more than a few seconds, a take-off from the grounds of reality, that is when the dreams would seep in. Forming a world in where everything seems familiar, always in the desolate tone of Wong Kar-wai’s Days of Being Wild stripped of all the intricate romance, yet never linger for long enough for me to remember anything when the world slapped me back to where I was sitting. Ethereal as it might sound, sometimes what is experienced there grips reality better than reality itself: perhaps it was an embodiment of every doubt and despair that I have, amalgamated into a world inside the head that never feels too far away yet can only be found every time the self is detached from the world of senses. An internal dimension full of fear, uncertainty, and doubt without collapsing into a lifelike nightmare. Somewhere unknowingly close that is yet to be explored.
Perhaps because the days have been good enough that the negativity of life have to find other ways to pull my feet back to the ground. Perhaps because subconscious contemplation reminds me that at the very heart of self, I am always a man of doubt.