Leaving Europe after a year was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Even months later, I have trouble being anything less than emotional about leaving behind the friends, the memories, the life I had there. I will go back; that’s for sure. But until then, thank goodness we never recover from good memories.
Waking from a dream
How do you feel as you wake up from a dream?
A scant couple of seconds. As consciousness creeps in, slowly gaining awareness of surroundings.
The sounds – ambient at first, like placing a conch to your ear – and then they take on forms. Bed creaking, rain tap-tapping on the windows, soft music from the Genius playlist the night before.
Then the morning chill hits you. You still haven’t opened your eyes but you’re pretty sure you don’t want to. How on earth did you get through an entire night in this cold? Never mind, doesn’t matter, pull up the blankets, it’s warmer now, it’s quiet, it’s too early to wake up anyway, or is it?
Blink. Blink. Eyes adjusting to low light. Soft cool glow from the window, an otherwise dark room. A rainy morning, the best kind. Did you sleep well? Why yes I did. Felt like forever though. Why? What were you doing? I just had the most glorious dream *self-satisified smile* Really? That sounds interesting. Tell me about it. Well, it was crazy… It all started with…
Panic! The waves of waking reality are breaking on the beach of consciousness, ripping off, dragging away inexorably what little remains of the scattered pages of the dream. No! Stop! Leave it alone. But it’s too late, you can make out a few papers floating on the surface, ink blotting into illegibility, in full sepia glory. For each one you can make out, you realise there were tens, hundreds which were gone even before you awoke. You salvage what few remain on the beach. They’re not in any particular order, not necessarily the grandest events, and despite your pride in elephantine memory, you can’t recall much, even with the contextual clues. The ink has smudged all but a few; these few of no use save for a spectacular grunge feel, lending a sense that something epic came and passed.
Panic curiously gives way to acceptance. Possibly, the most glorious dream lost in the realm of memories. The irony is not lost on you. You smile. The next one will be better then. Can’t wait for tonight. In the meantime, what’s next? Time to go face the waking dream. Shared, messy, noisy, illogical, just as surreal.
And so I begin to wake from a year-long European dream.
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srivatsa@gmail.com