Dreams
The False Reality
This is one of those bizarre dreams I’ve had. Why do I always get stuck in the weirdest places, struggling to get out?
I get on a familiar bus; painted in
red and white,
an eerie feeling of being the only
passenger,
to my surprise, there’s a stranger
cocooned up in the corner;
a lady dressed in grey coat–her gloom
transcends from the withering weather,
the bus wheels down a street,
heading towards a familiar avenue
of my old home city,
the mischievous thing about the trip
is the bus only operates in my new
home city; a famous metropolis where
arts, sports, and cultures erupt,
“Hold on. What’s going on?” I murmur
to myself.
The lady gets off along the familiar avenue,
I wince, the discomfort now becomes
unbearable,
so I’m forced to get off, I look around,
there’s restless drumming of my heartbeat,
“I must get home”, I say, “This isn’t my
home anymore.”
no taxi, none of that kind, however,
there’s a white man driving a tricycle;
he has shoulder-length blonde hair,
with denim pants and grey coat on,
he takes passengers, surely enough,
and I’m delighted, though there’s no
communication exchange,
he just seems to understand where
I’m supposed to go
so he drives on–fast! as fast as the tricycle
can fly–down empty streets, no shops
along the way–it’s supposed to be a city,
not a countryside, though it looks more like
the hidden country gem of the city,
though now I feel I’m back into the
metropolis,
in a snap, a sudden shift morphs in–
he must have jumped off, now I’m driving
freely, and he’s pacing down to catch up–
not running, not even half-running either,
just a calm pace, though I can still see him.
there I am–driving the tricycle on my own,
flying down precarious curves–as if I’m on
an exhibition,
I slide down trails–bushes and forest trees
all around, though in the mere distance,
I can see the metropolis skyline,
but then he’s gone! he has disappeared!
I pull over, scram back to look for him–he’s
nowhere to be found,
I rush back to the tricycle, not knowing
what to do–panicking now,
down the trail, to my right, two tricycles
zoom down into the bushes–the drivers
must have had enough of their day, time
for them to go home,
then a vendor riding on a trolley slips
and flips over,
some homeless hippies are having fun
behind a humongous rock; laughing on
high, chattering–a blasting party of
some kind,
two white young men squatting on a
platform, listening to weird music
hitting out of an ancient radio,
“I’m lost,” I whisper–to make it worse,
the tricycle has disappeared right before me,
“Now what do I do?”
as my intense panic seethes in, my last
recourse would be to call 911 and ask for
help, but then–
how am I supposed to explain to the
authorities all this?
where should I start?
would they believe me?
and as I’m about to dial the number,
I find myself back in my room, relieved
that I don’t need to explain myself
anymore.
It’s 12:08, time for lunch.
I’m back again.
In my new home.
Again and again.
What a ride.
What a trip.
Where am I, really?
In some false reality.
But I’m okay.
I’m okay.