Dreaming an Alternate Reality.

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2nd of July.
And when under the fever of the fourth day of the pox due to a sudden monsoon induced blackout of ten hours during the heat of which the same multiplied at a rate of bacterial growth, my imagination soared so high, mixing the reality and my reality of the dreams of the next two days, reaching a peak, that I still can’t tell the former from the latter, the two immersed as a single existence now. I don’t want to recall so much as even a moment of the period, but the dreams, the ultimate stories that elixired up in my unconscious brain cells need telling out so bad.
 I remember sleeping upon scattered neem leaves (a relaxing Indian home remedy; and that plant is a goddess in Hinduism apart from its medicinal uses) that helps to sleep, and playing and flying with pixies,Terijo as the faerie mother, calling us for lunch. That was fun. I even remember ‘feeling’ her sleep next to me, and my mum telling me the next morning that it was she right there right after I told her that ‘that woman’ is so kind and right before I vomited right on the spot as I was seated on a chair. The next night, I had a fight with Indira, under the surveillance of Tamyka and obviously Indira lost because I remember all of the Harry Potter spells by heart even in my dreams. Later on we made a pact to curate Chalkboard economically, which now seems the only logical thing to think. The next night on is all blur — the castration of Uranus, that crow, whining at mum for making me brush, pointing at the wall while she was standing on the other side, Ivana and me in that Joyce’ Ulyssean bar, arguing with cyclopsed bigot while Lorde sings in the background, my fingers getting stiff, partially due to air conditioning and partly due to weakness of bones, and Dr. Sax visiting to check my health up, under Jack’s recommendation, prescribing to eat lots of ice cream, a fast cure. 
 So concluding it all, I potpourried it all. Everything that was going on in my recent life, both online and paperback, and post all that, now, my memory of what happened before or during is pretty much ‘dreamy’, almost like that girl in the end of the alien sci-fi movie who screams, “it was all here. Why, why did I think anyone would believe me.”


music in the Ulyssean bar —