Yesterday night, I swirled a globe with my fingertips that shimmered under the neon fairy lights emerging from my roommate’s canopy wall. It looked like a dilapidated disco ball of a downtown club that shut down not long before the pandemic followed. My eyes were filled with the portion of witches, predatory hunger and gentle fascination, a toxic hazard.
You see, I was desperate, searching for the map of a magic shop. A magic shop that still followed the barter system. I wanted to barter my fears for better dreams.
I had to. I had to because my fears were guillotining me in slow motion, a 0.25 speed of a YouTube video, and day by day, I was choked with its burden like stars caught in the rattrap of gravity. I needed to exchange my fears for pretty dreams like the invincibility of the human spirit, a strong soul, and poetry that was not ugly.
I had to because my fears became never-ending nightmares, cradling my insomnia into bloodstained war grounds.
-> I dreamt that teenagers were taking their own lives off shelves like thieves in Walmart. Their sketchbooks had no fruit bowls and scenic landscapes but scribbles and doodles of mental illnesses. Their mothers were finding new scars on their bodies every fortnight, wondering when did sketch pens and body paint transform into knives and silent cursive screams?
-> I had horrifying visuals of people making brutal art. Music which encouraged the groping and manhandling of women by men in public, documentaries which showed how conversion therapies lead to better sanity of “gays”, movies that glorified non-consensual sex, rape culture and dramas which normalized bully to lover tropes.
I woke up choking on my lungs, my organs breaking down into dehydrated glucose and sick bio-mechanisms.
-> Once I overthought into lucid dreaming. I saw the police changing its profession from protectors of the city to killers of the people. Fake politicians admiring the banyan tree of communalism and hate crimes, a seed they once sowed when they were desperate for attention like Tinker Bell.
Rape threats under videos were so casual that nobody even talked about it anymore. The right to privacy was an inside joke by a secret society that everyone knew. Student loans metamorphosed into a circus of juggling part-time jobs or late-night webcam shows. Poverty begged for alms on free Google ads and spirituality became the debris of religion.
People around me were co-existing in a cesspool of self-loathe, bleeding their hearts into art journals and lyrics on digital notepads. My friends chained themselves to beds, never texted me for ice-creams yet sent “my therapist said” memes and less enthusiastic rants on YA novels.
My professors yelled at me for wearing sleeveless clothes. My relatives gifted me conservative ideologies at the Christmas dinner. My present of a rainbow identity was enveloped in termites and cobwebs under a bottomless closet, their present of acceptance was never wrapped, around their minds or with a ribbon.
I laughed when I woke up the next day because my Mum asked me to be scared of Blood Mary. She told me summoning Bloody Mary 3 times in front of the mirror is fatal.
But I never told her that I stood in front of such a mirror which made me realize that no one is coming just because you asked them.
Today, I went to the magic shop to exchange my fears for better dreams, they refused my request and pleading and commanding and crying and begging.
They were out of stock. Fun fact: Lack of double coincidence of wants cannot help in curing insomnia.
So, tonight, I swirled the shimmering globe with my fingertips again and whispered, “Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.”
Now, I see my fears alive or maybe I am dead because I can never sleep. At least stars fall after they are freed from the rattrap of gravity, and I wonder when will I become a shooting star?
I am just breathing and writing ugly poetry.
My art is a psychedelic drug and I am drowning in déjà vu. Help me!
//” Déjà Vu and Shooting Stars”// Enigma
Copyright © 2016-2020 Enigma. All rights reserved.
Picture Credits: Google Images