Lucid Dreams

Dearest Em,

It's one of those times when I write with both hands tied; sparks rain on me when it's clear sky, burning my soul. There is a shelter I take refuge in yet the comfort fails to outnumber the fears of the storm hitting it and ripping it apart, leaving me roofless once again. There is a long way to go. They count my footsteps, those who never leave their homes. They call me paralyzed who themselves are waiting to get cured. The traveller with wanderlust flowing through his veins mixed in his blood, hasn't he the right to chalk out his route map, go on a quest for happiness? As the sculptor chisels out stories out of a dead piece of stone, it never fails to fascinate me how we, in life, can do quite the same; the narrative changes when you do away with anything that doesn't belong to you, chisel out hopes from everything else. Building castles in the sky and putting pillars under them, so that when you spread your wings and scour the clouds, you remain grounded at the same time. I've been through ages of nothing but vagueness around but the void in me is healing itself, feels like I see the light of day again. I'm not unrealistic, they say there is no light who never let their windows open! Having him feels as kind a rhapsody as the first rains in summer, an innocence as pure as one biding in a child's joy. Roses fall in ecstasy on my garden soil, and the perfumes rise higher when their cage doors are let open. I need no one to understand me, fair enough if they treat me as uninvited guests, they don't hold onto things that keep them alive when it's easier to let go than to fight. I don't want to understand them. There is a part of my soul that still believes, that finds the smoke transparent and sees a nimbus around the darkness. To ease things, I believe like a fool would, in the impossible. In reality, I admit that I'm wiser than those who keep drawing lines of impossibilities around every faith. My dreams are lucid, and I'm guilty of still believing in them and I can happily spend my entire life in prison for the sake of it. Is there a way that leads to nowhere or is the destination too anti love to exist? What about the times when I harmed myself, stayed alive not because I wanted to live but because I was afraid of death? Now it feels like coming back to life again, rising from my own ashes. I'll forget what they said. Neither do I ever wish to understand how people stab themselves to death. When I go to sleep I still believe that I'll wake up the next morning, when it's all overcast I still believe that the sun will rise again, when it's a dead-end, I believe there's still a way ahead. The universe is bigger than you can imagine, and it hasn't ended yet, with all the beauty, it has fears, but with all the fears it's still beautiful.

With love,

Just yourself