In Continuum.

With the Spilling of Your Blood



Well I held you like a lover
Happy hands and your elbow in the appropriate place
And we ignored our others, happy plans
For that delicate look upon your face


To tell you the truth, I'm not sure how many of you readers out there regard my entries about my dreams to be real, or just fabricated storyline. Doubts are understandable I guess, because people don't usually remember dreams in such details. But I guess that is my gift and a curse somehow, to remember everything too vividly, anything but textbook materials and anything else necessary. I remember - in life - the littlest details, every small gestures and the tone of every word uttered by somebody. In dreams, I too remember the intricate details of the dreams, even the nightmares. And sometimes I wake up feeling the heart in my chest beating at an dangerous rate.

I fell asleep again, with Neil Gaiman's The Sandman next to me. It was five o'clock in the afternoon then, and cuddling with myself in the blankets, I felt the fabric brush against my skin and made knots with every twist of my limbs. The laziness overwhelmed me once again, thoughts flew like random bullets in the air upon a battlefield. They darted here and there until a wave of nausea took over, and I found myself drifting, drifting away into a quiet sleep.

Our bodies moved and hardened
Hurting parts of your garden
With no room for a pardon
In a place where no one knows what we have done

The light from the orange lamp in my room is gone, replaced by a bright spotlight of sorts, shining from a ceiling high above. I couldn't see the ceiling, too high for my naked eyes which were blinded by the lights. The place felt like my room, but it sure did not feel like it was, with the empty corners and the dusty floors. All that remained in this dream from the real bedroom were the beds and the tables to the left corner of the room. Tiny dust storms stirred from every movement of my hands, and our voices were greatly muted, reduced to soft whispers for some reason.

There you were next to me, just outside the circle of light from above. We were sitting on the floor below the window, and outside of it the rain fell like the way it did on Christmas morning. But nothing of the dream resembled that morning, only a deadly gloom and cheerlessness surrounded us then, aside from the cloud of dust around our feet. I couldn't see your face as you were hidden in the shadows, and when I reached out to touch you, you retreated further into the corner until you were out of the light completely.

Do you come
Together ever with him?
And is he dark enough?
Enough to see your light?
And do you brush your teeth before you kiss?
Do you miss my smell?
And is he bold enough to take you on?
Do you feel like you belong?
And does he drive you wild?
Or just mildly free?
What about me?

In whispers we spoke, and for some reason I felt exposed. It must have been the light, or the way I felt your gaze upon me from the shadows. I tried to reach out for you again, and this time my fingers touched the gentle curves of your neck, sloping down to your shoulders, how perfectly built it is. Almost as intricate as something built by a machine of sorts, but perfectly natural and totally human. That is how perfect I saw you in life, and even in dreams you retained that beauty. The edge of your face glowed as our hands met, and then a moment of understanding met in the space in between that we shared.

This shall be the last, you said to me in soft whispers. The last time. On all fours I crawled to you, afraid somehow that somebody would hear our movements. But there was nobody around, nobody to interrupt, and inches from each others' faces you said this to me," It is about time I tell you what is hidden." I was confused, and I retreated enough so that I am still outside of the circle of light, still hidden from the merciless exposure from above. "It is time to tell you the truth."

Well you held me like a lover
Sweaty hands, and my foot in the appropriate place
And we use cushions to cover
Happy glands, in the mild issue of our disgrace

You were too afraid to say the words, too ashamed you said. And out of nowhere, there was a piece of paper in between us in the layers of dust. From the table you grabbed a pen, and started writing whatever you wanted to say, instead of just saying it out loud. And I waited, as you scribbled the words down upon the paper. I watched your eyesight, focused. And as you finished writing, you asked me if I am ready to know the truth.

"Yes," I said in a soft whispered. "I am."

On the paper written in blue ink, seven words stared back at me in the dark. They should have their effects, I should be feeling the punch in my chest. But for some reason, only a dizzy numbness was felt in all parts of my body. It was as if I expected the words on the paper, though to be honest it was totally out of the blues. You watched with expectations that my face would contort into anger or disgust, but it didn't. I remained calmed, controlled and most of all, tired. I read the words on the paper again, and still they took no effect on me.

Our minds pressed and guarded
While our flesh disregarded
The lack of space for the light-hearted
In the boom that beats our drum

"I am still in love with him" was what you wrote on the paper, and there you were staring at me in my dreams with those eyes, begging for me to hate you once and for all. As if hate or anger will make things any easier, and less painful than it already is. But the heart that belongs to the man that sat before you in that dream, froze and died too long ago to feel any pain now, just the hollow empty ones that attacks me in the night. After all, we've been through this before haven't we? Only in other more indirect ways, but you have implied the same thoughts, that you are still in love with him.

"What are you going to do?" you asked.

"What can I do?" I replied. " You are out on your own, in a place where I cannot follow."

Well I know I make you cry
And I know sometimes you wanna die
But do you really feel alive without me?
If so, be free
If not, leave him for me
Before one of us has accidental babies
For we are in love

Then as I looked away, the dripping of water somewhere in the room began. It was slow at first, and then started going faster and faster, always staying in rhythm. I searched the darkness for the source, and traced the sound back to you. It wasn't water that I heard or even tears that you fell, but blood spurting from your eyes and mouth. You were crying blood then, flowing out from your eyes like tears and spilling them on the ground where you were. Your face turned white, sickly and death-like.

With all my strength I carried you in my arms and dashed out of my darkened bedroom, and tried to make my way to the front door, feeling the warm blood soaking my shirt and dripping down my own chest. The smell of the blood was overwhelming, and you kept crying and crying until my white t-shirt turned red under the torrents of blood. Too tired, I was too tired. My legs gave way, and I dropped you. Your body came crashing to the ground, clothes soaked in your own blood. Then almost as if somebody switched on the lights...

Do you come
Together ever with him?
Is he dark enough?
Enough to see your light?
Do you brush your teeth before you kiss?
Do you miss my smell?
And is he bold enough to take you on?
Do you feel like you belong?
And does he drive you wild?
Or just mildly free?

...I woke up. Hearts beating at disturbing speed. I felt the pulse in my eyes for some reason, and sitting up in my bed, I crashed back down into the comfort of the pillow, breathing hard with my eyes wide opened. The shirt is still white, the spotlight from above was gone. Your body was nowhere to be found, and everything was back to normal, and in place.

The Book of Answers lied, I remembered. I asked a question in my heart that day at Kinokuniya with Corinna, and I never told her my question. Like birthday wishes, I thought perhaps by keeping it secret, they might just come true. So I prayed and at the same time, held the Book of Answers tight in my hands. Repeatedly I asked in my head," Will she pick me, will she pick me?" One word graced the page when I flipped it opened. I smiled, trusted the book and walked out of the store with Corinna, a happy man.

It lied, that fucking book.

Yes, it said. Yes.

What about me?
What about me?