Calling out names

The night fell, and is going to rise, gradually uncovering its envelope over the Earth. The dawn is breaking for a while, yet I do not want to go to bed. I had enough sleep in the previous evening when I almost fell down as I reached my room.

… It was a cloudy, gray dusk when I was on the bus from Hanoi’s centre to the airport more than a week ago. I was looking out through the dusty glass window while making up in my mind a dystopian world in the future where I would wear some kind of uniform, sitting on the same bus with many others who would be also dressed like me. It might not be so overcrowded like it is today on Earth, since the Government is applying numerous measures of birth restriction and gene selection. Some chemicals are added in drinking water to make nearly all women and men sterile while babies are born in vitro. It sounds quite like Brave new world.

I am fatigued, by the side effects of the drugs I am taking. I have been sleeping a lot. And tonight, it dawned on me that what I love most about sleeping is that I can live while dreaming, and in dreams we can be whatever, do whatever the subconscious wants us to be and to do. The possibilities are wild, but it is also interesting, and important, that we cannot have absolute control over how the twists and turns show up and all the complexities of the dreaming world, just like in the “real” world. And we can die, in dreams, again and again, yet we will wake up sometime the day after, again and again, as we are growing old. To be more accurate, we have no control over what we will dream, it is another reality within fiction, impregnable and inexplicable.

I wondered what the death was like. I supposed it would be something totally black or white, bearing resemblances with plasma, in which ones cannot see their body parts, and there will be nothing, and from which ones calling out names, and broken ideas and thoughts.

*

I have moved into the new apartment for about two weeks. And as I came back the empty room I used to live, I could just not remember exactly where I had put my belongings, and at the time the room seemed to me that of a stranger, that I was visiting it as an option on the way to find accommodation. What I had done there, living, breathing, bathing, making love, drinking and writing, I was then forming a motion picture of all these mosaics in my muddled mind. How it is strange this time this way!

I studied my face in the mirror and was quite surprised that it was me, myself. I have been trying to match the face with the voice I heard and re-heard a lot of times in the interview I conducted, all in vain, for no reason, and good for nothing, just to be landed on another strange realm of awareness of my existence. Ones become different all the time, I think, in one moment.

… The night is eerily silent that I can hear the tick-tock of my clock. The wind bell chimes relentlessly, against the seemingly moribund air of the night. I do not know what to do next. I feel like I am suffering from anhedonia. Perhaps it is also caused by the drugs.

… Sometimes, the dusty glass window of the bus in Hanoi reminds me of the gathering dusk when I was back home for my sister’s wedding, the sun was shining its last gleams on the clear sky, soaking some wisps of scattered fluffy cloud in gold and purple. I was then thinking that my sister would become pregnant and bear her babies, and life would go on that way.

A couple of hazy eyes caught me on the bus…

Time passes me by while I am floating through the oblivion of sedentary office life.

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