Hush little fish.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Do fishes dream of walking?

Submitted: November 01, 2011

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Submitted: November 01, 2011

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In this world there are precious few things to yearn for; one’s hometown, a dream and a loved one. If hard pressed to state which of the three I love the greatest it would be with much sighing and hesitation that I deign to take the dream.

Let me explain! Never have I lived in a place more meaningful, more laden with symbols,imagery and icons than the dreamy landscape that resides in the recesses of my mind. Where the air is positively brimming with melodious lyrics, bodiless voices that whisper tender loving words. Where the ephemeral garden of memory is always in bloom.

What are dreams but a hyper-reality touched with the trace of a wind of an allusion in every follicle and fiber? What is the subject matter of dreams but a mite of dust floating in the sole ray of sunlight?-- such is the cunning of dreams that contrive to forever hold us captives of childlike wonderment-even upon awakening. Dreams that bleed across the threshold of reality utter a final battle-cry in the very midst of its death throes; these are the dreams that have preoccupied my waking state on no few number of occasions.

In one such dream of mine I dreamt that I was a fish, swimming along an infinite precipice in a dark bottomless ocean. I was gliding my way through this watery netherworld until I found a suitable cavernous cove so as to drift asleep. It is during this delightful equilibrium between sleep and wakefulness that I awoke. A remarkably absurd dream such as anyone would have. However a rather peculiar sensation awaited me as I awoke; the physical sensation of cool liquid surrounding me still continued and the experience was most vivid; I could feel the ocean ebb to and fro with a rhythmic quality not unlike that of a nocturne.

As I was coming to I had the most profound realization that perhaps, just perhaps I wasn’t awakening from a dream but drifting into one. Doubt entered my psyche and I could not help nurse a most absurd notion—was it I, the man, that had dreamt that he was a fish? or was it the fish that dreamt that it was a man?

The sensation was fast leaving me and what remained was the vestiges of a world forever shut. Thus pervading my spirit with an odd mixture of abandonment and nostalgia whenever I happen to reminisce on the domain of dreams. A feeling not unlike the hushes, tipish tipish and hamadas of a long forgotten lullaby…-


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