Once upon a time a man placed me
in the metaphor of a dream catcher.
He wasn’t much of a poet- He did no research, and his imagination went only as far as his needs.
So he alloted to me that function of warding of the nightmares in his head, of looking pretty of adorning his bed. And I did.
Answer to his prayers.That’s what he called me but he was a little agnostic.Still, he believed in me. And because he did I worked like a charm. But here’s the thing they haven’t told you dream catchers are not one-size-fits-all. They’re each unique with their spiritual lattices made to hold dreams of different sizes and types. Or they wear out slowly but surely. I told him this with my hands fidgeting and he figured I was narrating a tale riveting and smiled at me through enthusiastic applause.
You see, he wasn’t really a man of words
and me? This woman has words only.
You see, that was sorta the point
which I explained to him.
I said, I’m tired. I cannot be
your dream catcher, set me free.
He cried foul- you’re fine, he said.
Refusing to let go of a dreamcatcher
before its feathers fall off.
So I stepped aside
and let through them all
all the nightmares I had watched
He said, how ungrateful.
Haven’t I heard
all your hopes and dreams
He had heard my dreams
while I rephrased his nightmares
so they seemed less scary.
How ungrateful of me, I almost sneered
and he lashed at me for never
letting him see
inside my head
never letting him be
That’s sorta the point
I then explained-
I am a sceptic, you see
I like to dream my own dreams
and psychoanalyse my nightmares
in my wake.
But, but- charlatan! He declared.
Harlot and a heartless manipulator.
I almost defended myself
for being nice. I almost explained
how consent can be withdrawn
without either party being irreversibly
damaged. But then I thought hey,
let this be my parting gift-
one last filter.
So, go on, man child, hate on me.
After all, whatever, helps you sleep better.