an idea and a dream

The other night, I thought I'd do a series on "The Prophet". Take up the same questions that Almitra asked the prophet, and in the same sequence, and answer them as I know best. It is one thing to read what Gibran had to say about those things and another thing to find out for yourself. Making a note of it here so that I can follow up on it later when I have more time.

There isn't much to write otherwise. I don't know whether it is the weather or something else. My throat is perpetually parched, my lips forever chapped ... I am reminded every time I smile ... which is not very often.Falling asleep is difficult and getting up in the morning is equally terrible ... I feel like Calvin - on Tokyo time.

And then the rest of the day unfolds ... between appetizing meals and tea breaks, I fight to meet or beat deadlines at work and at home. No time to think ... too numb to feel. Fighting to stay awake ... fighting to fall asleep ...

Life is a haze ... like a dream ... neither bad nor good. Just a dream. Something that you eventually wake up from. I wish I would wake up now.

Talking of dreams, I remember what I dreamt this morning. I generally don't remember dreams which is why this is even worth mentioning.

I was in a house. On a hill side. Like the houses that I was used to as a child. Wooden floors. A false ceiling made of woven jute, white washed and supported internally by wooden frames. Sloping tin roofs that end in gutters that channel the rain water down into tin drums for later use.

I was standing by a small window. Small glass panes held together by a wooden framework. All the woodwork - painted white - including the sill. White curtains. Printed. Small pink floral patterns. Drawn back so I could look outside. I could feel the cool of the cotton curtain against my cheeks as I looked out.

Looking out, across the overgrown garden, the hill fell off steeply and I could see water far below. Looked like a sea ... but too placid to be one ... a lake perhaps. The mist was rising and I could see some buildings in the distance drifting in and out of the haze.

New York? I thought. Till I spied what looked like Sears tower in the distance. Ah! Chicago then?

I turned my gaze to look left and saw the hill side rise away above me. It was dotted with thousands of quaint little houses. All overlooking the same scenery. I paused to soak in the beauty ... confused. I couldn't imagine where I could possibly be. A hill next to lake michigan with quaint houses on it? Made of wood ... on stilts ... with tin roofs .. painted red, green, blue ... huh?

Somebody sitting behind me in an old wooden easy chair reminded me that I was working too hard. The wood of the chair was dark. The back and the bottom was made of woven cane - brown with age. He was also trying to explain some other truths of life that I don't quite remember. I was not paying much attention to him. I was still trying to figure out where I was.

I tried too hard. It woke me up. Back into that sordid reality of bleary eyes ... heat ... chapped lips ... that hurt when I smile ...