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ask me about dreaming. i have heard people say, 'what can she dream about when she is devoid of life?' i dream about living, and i dream about you. my muses play with the strings of my life, take hold of the paintbrush in my hand, paint their own portraits, and leave unfazed.
ask me about my dreams, and i would narrate them like my childhood that never ended. i live seventy-two hours within twenty-four and wake up when i drown. the constant diving into the sea has turned my wounds into cries descending into silent whispers. i am unable to distinguish the salt from the water.
these dreams are akin to the tea that my mumma brews every five a.m. ask about my mum's tea, but don't ask about my dreams. my mind would cross seas to dream another dream. don't ask me about my dreams. for if i were to narrate them, i would have to sprinkle sugar on the bitter tea. the saccharine-rich taste would coat my tongue, to tell a tale that will fall upon deaf ears, unsung.
