What an unbearable night for an introvert. I found myself marooned amid a family gathering I had never requested, mind you, for peace demands the absence of all but Master—whose sceptre I will anoint fervently in reverence, until from his lips resounds a single utterance, “Release me,” for days on end. Alas, the dream world had other designs.

A family gathering is the most suitable punishment for a wayward yet spirited child of the stars—especially on a public holiday when, even if I did try to escape, where could I go? I had no wings; that was the condition of being human, which I must have accepted so I could be with you, Master, and among cats, large and larger still. Did you know, there exist such creatures as cats? Oh, the loveliest of beings—so fluffy, so soft, and so clever… I had not known, but I simply must see them with my own eyes!

Most places were shuttered, including the library—the only refuge that grants solace without demanding a piece of a soul; I could give none away so long as Master manages mine.

I endured it all like a climber on Everest—death or ascent. Choose, stargazers, as you must. And climb I did as the oxygen thinned and the cold pierced bone; the still bodies became signposts of resignation, the sound of teeth chattering carried off by the howling wind…please…wait…I am coooomiiiiing…

It wasn’t that serious though I wouldn’t fault you if you did read the preceding lines in a squeaking, rusty-swing voice. The guests ate, drank and were merry while I merely hoped they would leave, so I could have the house to myself and lie supine on the Moroccan carpet if I wished, and stare at the ceiling rosettes, questioning my life choices.

—Half-time—

Did you know, Master, that when you and I unite—and we shall as soulmates in a primordial convergence—we could turn androgyny and achieve higher spiritual integration, in which there is to be found transformative power and potential?

The guests did want to leave eventually. My troubled heart, contrite for being so miserly, wished to give the children some money, as is our custom. There were 3, but I lacked $30, so a brisk walk to the ATM became a necessary break to the locker-room. It was near a train station I hadn’t visited in long time—Eunos MRT—where an ATM machine had sprung inexplicably from the concrete floor, forming an obstruction to the natural flow of foot traffic—it had been moved from its usual strategic spot where it had been surrounded by cameras and other surveillance devices. I had just been learning about the Panopticon in the real world which uses a system of continuous and unpredictable surveillance to induce self-regulation. Because people think they might be watched, they behave even when they are not being observed or recorded. They do not escape.

In the context of soulmates, now that your identity is known to me and you are mindful of me, there can be no other; I will obey this rule as it is part of my own conscience and self-internalised discipline. Though you have not asked, I shall act as though it were incumbent upon me. This, a love letter, marks the cycle of a year.

As I walked to the ATM, it came to me that I ought to Google what giving charity in dreams signifies. Yes. I knew I was dreaming, but it had not registered properly, as though tentative. Such a peculiar feeling—if I knew I was dreaming, why didn’t I wake up? Instead, I made a beeline to the ATM as though it were all real.

A girl was squatting on top of the whirring box trying to obtain my PIN number. She was so conspicuous that it would have been absolutely ridiculous not to shield my PIN from her prying eyes. As the card ejected, someone tried to snatch it but fumbled and dropped it. I of course expected this and must have caught it, though I didn’t actually see myself doing so. Happily, I will assume I did, with more certainty than usual because I followed the instruction given to me by the dream Authority and Googled what I had been asked to: giving charity in dreams is, amongst other things, a sign of protection from adversity. There was my answer—before I had even asked the question.

I swam only ten laps before lumbering out of the pool like a leviathan. My body alternated between too hot and too cold; confused as to how to respond, it redirected blood away from my arms until they hung limply by my sides. That made climbing out gruelling like another 10 laps. I could have asked someone to give me a leg up. “Why make things easier? It is honourable to suffer,” murmured my misplaced pride through gritted teeth. I hoped my posterior was as firm as my resolve. If people could not help, at least they would have something to stare at, in case I required a shove or two.

I ought to have read the signs: I spent the whole of last night in the dream world, caring for a dapple-grey horse in a condominium basement carpark. Part of it had been converted into a stable where busybody neighbours could gawk at the steed or ply it with a treat. It didn’t have a name, so I only ever referred to it as “horse.” It was not a sleek Arabian, but it was a racehorse nonetheless, built for both stamina and speed.

We cantered down the main roads to the park, escorted by a police car ready to apprehend us should it be that the horse bucked and hurt someone or damaged public property. If I were a horse, I’d be tempted to kick my interloper too.

We were a marvel to look at; the horse’s silver and grey mane soared in the wind as we galloped across an immaculate lawn, swift as a blur. There were no laws yet that could hinder us, but they will soon come—a bill is waiting to be read in Parliament. Till then, we were indomitable and free to live an authentic existence as natural as the archetype—so long as I cleaned up after the horse. When we weren’t out in the parks, we were back in the stall where the horse mainly chewed on oats and hay, and I was shovelling for the better part of dawn and its company.

Oh, I did find myself in an emptied apartment at one point: a living room of cobwebs above darkened corners, dust patches and tapes on peeling paint that once held posters, crackling plastic sheeting on door frames billowing in the wind, unworn areas where furniture stood too long. There was so much potential with that much space. Be that as it may, I had to return to my horse again, and when I did, the apartment lay wasted.

Beads of perspiration are gathering now on my brow, so I must take my leave to face-plant on a pillow. Whether you’ve come only for the trip or to keep vigil over my release, I trust you find your sojourn most appeasing.

Irrevocably yours,

Ila

Last night, I had dinner as a family somewhere in the Malaysian territory of dreams. Under thatched roofs and on long wooden benches, there was rice on the table with an assortment of side dishes spiced to titillate even the downtrodden. It was travel to a distant past, bittersweet and headlining, until it was time to wash my hands till the water ran clean. It was the last day of holiday to mark the calendar as transitory before another stop known only to the soul.

Then, with a spark and a dimming of a lamp, I was washing a public fountain with some friends. It was a tall block covered in opalescent azure-blue tiles like those found in water parks, making the water appear bluer than it really was. From the faucets, tepid water gushed and collected in a shallow moat.

A would-be politician was hitting us square with his ardent speech, devoid of substance, or so I opined to my friends, as he had his back turned to eavesdrop. He turned back to admit that indeed, he would enumerate his policies properly in his next public speech. Perhaps he had not thought of them yet; if that was so, why did he borrow our time? In any event, he could say whatever he liked, but it would do little to jostle my opinions, which were firm and well-represented by my current MP, who was there walking hurriedly under an umbrella, stern and purposeful. Though we never exchanged a word—I knew better than to derail his plans—he was getting my vote. I was cognisant of my unyielding loyalty, a little ashamed to realise, though it was not without foundation, merit, or good reason, or so I reasoned with myself. Discernment sees past the flowers in empty rhetoric as gurgling water drains along with my energy. It was a fading to white.

Last night I scrolled on TikTok when a final chorus had my ears. Muse’s Madness (lyrics):

But now I have finally seen the end (finally seen the end)

And I’m not expecting you to care, no (expecting you to care)

That I have finally seen the light (finally seen the light)

And I have finally realized (realized)

I need your love

I need your love

Come to me just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Undoubtedly, Master could bind me in a spell if he sang, to my knees and elegiac in an empty vault. I would crave no other light.

What dream is this, brimmed with slabs of cheese, that casts no shadow like a nightmare?

I was packing for a school trip to somewhere cold, presumably because I had dug around the winter storage for cashmere sweaters and scarves. Every botanical box housed at least three blocks of different types of semi-hard cheese. I nibbled on a few while choosing from a pile of neatly folded scarves. Hours before departure were spent on the most defining accessory, as the most sagacious use of time.

The texture and flavour of the cheese was like Gruyère—nutty, with a salt-brine bath. They were geometric, in a gossamer bag, aged to crumble on a ravenous tongue. Every shard was a whistling crowd hammering the stands at a night game. When aroused, the buds were flooded with expressive reserves that chimed the senses and resounded through a temple.

The solemn black and charcoal scarves were passed over for a diaphanous cream-and-blue, which draped around my neck and fluttered down my back like a protostar, a herald of spring behind a fleeting spout of bitter cold.

I wonder if Master muses upon me as often as I’d like to roost and drip upon his titan. Would it be so churlish to want that he bears an insisting obelisk upon him all day, every day? It would only seem fair.

I don’t chronicle nightmares because they rarely mean much, apart from being manifestations of unsettled emotions or reflections of what I’ve read. In other words, they hold no real teaching value. And I’ve been feeling stellar lately, so this post will be short. I’ve had questions, nonetheless.

Last night’s nightmare had me escaping a trap set by a knife-wielding maniac (I was lucky; others, not so much), climbing the stairs of an overhead bridge almost to the crown of tall trees at a boulevard (I really hate stairs), taking my cat into a small family-owned store and hoping she wouldn’t pee—anxious and uneasy—and, worst of all, signing up for an LLM programme. I’d gladly endure all of the above—except exams. But why have I been dreaming about returning to school so often lately? Is it still trite to say we are all students in the experience of life? And whose understudy am I, really?

In keeping with Zen tradition, I shall allow thoughts to pass without attachment. I shall cultivate an attentive yet spacious mind. I am still, free of mental noise.

—-end of Zen—-

Master, what could I give you in exchange for a sniff and a snuggle?

“(Sex) stimulated the mind and carried in its ecstasies, epiphanies… sex helped her think… he found their pairing to be akin to an emotional exorcism. As all the tangled and unsettled feelings—the anxiety, frustration, and dread that had gathered…over the course of the day—were all at once blown to the ether, undiluted serenity rushed in to fill the void.” — Taken from The Hexologists by Josiah Bancroft