In my dreams, I run down a hill and fall in a heap.

I land in the middle of a dancing circle of people I have never met. I don’t dance with them, I can’t. I try and run away, embarrassed to be seen in my ratty night-suit. They follow me, their voices rising with every drum beat. I jog for a long time and realize that I am not tired. Thoughts of better stamina and marathon timing cross my mind even within my dream space.

When I get home, I curl up into a ball on my floor and eat watermelon pieces from a glass bowl. I watch something on television until I feel the floor crack beneath me and I start to fall.

I fall into the dancing circle again and we are back at the start.

The part, right before you wake up, where your sleep coated brain tells you confusing stories.

The tree weighs down with the weight of a swing and the child sitting doesn't remain a child for too long. He becomes an old man with a rough beard and yellowing eyes. The sky comes down in a sweeping layer of mud and rain. The birds resting on the tree fly away in a frenzy. The face of the man, all papery and peeling, leaks tar coloured blood.

When it stops raining, the tree disappears. The man folds himself into a grave. Atop the grave is a plant that appears to be waking up.

Then the rains come again. 

Friday dreams.

The man in my dream has an acquired egg. He smirks when we correct his English. “I meant an acquired egg, like acquired taste. Not that I have acquired an egg.” He tells us in a tone you use to talk to a stubborn five year old. We ask him what that means, because it sounds like a lot of fluff.

He ignores our question. He holds the egg up in the air. It is pale blue, like the clear sky. I reach out to touch it, but he doesn’t let me.

“He took a fairy tale and ran with it.” Someone tells me. He hears that and begins to run.

Run with it. Run with it. Run with it.

We run after him because if at all acquired eggs are a potential sensation, I’d like to be a part of this experience. He doesn’t stop until we reach a playground with doctors. It’s some kind of a medical camp with Ferris wheels.

My sister is there. She is wearing a coat and a straw hat. She looks at the acquired egg and says, “Please don’t touch that. There is Tuberculosis Bacillus everywhere.”

Then there is darkness.

My dreams are often bathed in blue.

They involve drug lords getting attacked my paper birds. The paper birds unfold a message which very often includes death in a gruesome fashion. Sometimes, they are a whirlwind train journey through many snapshots. The faces that flash are attached to bodies that aren't their own. They tell tales with not too much sound; tales that are far more interesting than their non-dream existence. 

They ripple along with the slightest sound and melt into completely different worlds. It's like seeing something through a coloured lens. It's like watching something thrilling, something that you want to be a part of so much, that it's frightening. 

The blue light fades away in the mornings taking with it the stories and the parallel lives. The things and the people pack up in loud silence, like the actors after a heart stopping play. 

There’s a puddle of ice and lemons. We jump through it, rubber slippers and such, making a rather pleasant smelling mess. Nobody seems to mind it, which is rare for a room full of serious looking, no-nonsense people. By the time we are done, lemon seeds are stuck between my toes and the exposed part of my foot feels numb.

We eat cake directly from the box. It’s funnily liberating and full of guilt. We are adults, we say over and over again, but we behave like children left loose. In the end, someone pours a bottle of dark liquid into the cake box and it’s a heavenly mix of all the good things.

I fall asleep on my front, hands tucked under the stomach, with my mouth a little open. In the morning, it feels unreal. My head doesn’t hurt and the floor is clean. That is slightly odd, yes

The dreams are dotted with fairy lights, like glittering birds flying into the sun. The nights are shorter and the darkness is as thick as a sheet. The dreams are of stories; stories that I create with wide sweeping strokes. They are of cold, snowed in houses and warm brown sweaters. The dreams are dense with a wayward hope that surfaces only when the mind slows down a little.

The glass-panes are fuzzy with the rainwater and smog. I have to wipe out a little smear to look outside. In the brightly coloured dreams, I look out from this little smear window and see the whole place buzzing with a hundred people. Some are wearing mufflers and some carry beach umbrellas.

The men have rolled up tents tucked under their arm. The children have balloons tied to their backpacks. As the electric blue rain drips out of the sky, they hitch up their shelter and start singing. I am not sure what they sing, but their mouths open and shut in harmony.

The little sojourns between two chaotic days are covered in yellow wool. As I open it up, and stand amidst the vivacious fabric, the night peels away. What lies beneath is a long, twisted episode of something that I may not always remember, but will almost always appreciate.