Stab and Dream

 

In the pale darkness of the room, the obscure image of the clock was trying to hide itself. The mechanical noise of its hands gave away its presence. The red dot of the television panel was also trying to mingle with the surrounding, as if it was feeling guilty of disturbing the silent darkness. Only the ceiling fan was defiant as it kept on rustling the air around to forcefully sending it towards the ground, it was required to do precisely that, and it was proud to do that.

 

The obscurity was still unable to hide a few empty and half empty cardboard packs and an empty plastic bottle. A few metallic packets of capsules were ruffling inside a plastic bag, and then the knife rose from the bottom of the mattress. It kept rising till it pierced the body from the back, right beside the backbone; two inches in the left from the backbone to be precise. It rose and rose, no blood, – just the pain. Rising and sending ripples around. The ripples that bounced back from the edge of the abdomen and started moving back to its origin. Now you know what is pain. Now you have just a glimpse of what happens to millions across the world. Its just a sample, a one of sample – isn’t it?

 

It nagged and nibbled and kept biting, and the night went on. The clock and the red light and the fan kept changing their places, busy in a maddening game of merry go round; or is it the musical chair? Couldn’t figure them out after a point of time, the stomach was already churning. Somewhere down the flow of time the body managed to get used to its rhythm and started dreaming of a face – leaning on him, with eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses, yet not able to hide the anxiety. Felt a soft moist hand on the forehead, and a silken cover guarding the burning face from the cold air. Tried to shift the position in the bed, but a few magical notes from a pair of trembling lips stopped me half way. Now I know how the body managed to take a break from the pain.

 

The sunlight was forcing its way through the slight opening of the curtain, slapping on the face it forced the eyes open. The clock kept on its monotonous pace. The pale darkness failed, but the morning light has already hidden the red light of the television set. The fan was still proudly thrusting those loads of air downwards. The eyes searched for the hand, and the lips and the eyes – they were lost, as the dream. What came back jabbing was the knife in the back, and the ripples it created on the belly. The day usually brings hope; especially for someone who takes pride in optimism; only the bravest of the braves needs their armor too. They need their weapon to fight off their greatest adversary. But all he knows is that he is not alone; someone somewhere sometime might be having a similar dream. Can dreams come together? Do dreams have enough power to unite in the physical world? Does dream has enough magic in it to make things happen? One can only dream that they do…