…The Musings of a Strange Guy


…is so beautiful! I never cease to be astonished with that realisation. Progressed a lot with The Bridge last night.

Remaining 100 pages to tackle.

I need to sharpen my pencil every 10 minutes or so, hehe.

Anyway, I have taken Ulysses and placed it on my table next to my computer. This is just to remind me that I can no longer procrastinate with tackling this book. Indeed, I have very little time left and so many things to do and complete.

I have assignments to prepare, my dissertation to start writing, places to visit, people to meet, a life to live…:P

Had a very vivid dream about me and my family just before I woke up. We were sitting together and having dinner and someone just rang the doorbell. Somehow, in that dream, I knew that this did not bode well and I warned my father who fetched a sword (where did that come from???) and went out, closely followed by me. There were four men out there, and they looked drunk. One of them immediately snatched the sword from my father’s hands and held it against his throat. I woke up then. Or at least, I partially woke up, as it happens with some of my dreams. I then re-entered the dream where I saw myself kicking one of the would-be thieves (?) and struggling with another, while shouting to my mother that she should call the police. My mother then appeared with a glass full of whisky and threw it at one of the goons’ face, putting him hors de combat… At this juncture, my phone alarm rang and I woke up, or rather just opened my eyes since I was half awake already.

Now I’m wondering about this dream. I’m not one of those who runs after his dreams to find secret and hidden meanings but I do believe that dreams are an expression of the unconscious or subconscious as it processes information and feelings. My dreams are usually very vivid and lifelike, and hardly distinguishable (frightening thought) from reality. Sometimes, part of me is aware that I’m living out a dream while sleeping; at other times, it just feels so real. And the thing is, I remember most of the dreams I’ve had. Well, now my defective memory is starting to show signs of degenerescence but I do remember my dreams for a long time.

What really troubles me is that I rarely dream about my family unless part of my mind has subconsciously been thinking about them. And this is the third time in less than a week that I’ve dreamt of my family. The first two times were about my cousins, aunts and uncles. The one I had this morning was only restricted to my own family. Interestingly, my sister was not in the picture. Where was she? I think my mind/memory knew that my sister usually sleeps very early and never usually dines along with the family. I need to tell her this. She wrote me an email the day before saying that she dreamt I got a new friend here called Graham (which I haven’t got, at least, not yet..), and that I went to visit his house. I told her my classes haven’t started yet and there might be a Graham somewhere in my class, hehe. I’d love to prove her right, just to spook her a bit.

Ah…dreams…I could go on and on about them. I do not usually think a lot about them, but they are so strong that some have actually remained firmly imprinted in my mind for several days. I had thought, once, to keep a journal to keep note of my dreams. But as all my other journal-keeping endeavours, this failed miserably. I am not a journal person, really. I love to write, yes, but rarely about me. Even now, there are parts of me that are carefully filed away under ‘Confidential’ and that I couldn’t possibly express.

Anyway, have been typing all this while eating some toast and drinking piping hot chai. It’s been a long time since I had the time to savour some tea. I remember how I used to drink two full cups of them when I was younger. I had this great liking for chai, which my grandma used to secretly indulge. My parents, of course, did not approve. But they couldn’t say anything because my early years had been spent at my grandma’s and even when my father constructed his own house later on in the same yard, I still lived for some time at my grandparents’ place, still unwilling to relinquish my life as part of this extended family. I think my parents never completely forgave me for this.

To me, our new house wasn’t really appealing. Oh I played there often while it was being constructed. Memories and photographs reveal me and my sister enjoying icecream (or is it yoghurt?) in front of the nearly completed house. But it did not have the same sense of history, of family and of being alive as my grandparents’ house did. The walls lining the corridors of my grandma’s house are like helping arms that supported my hesitant steps; I learnt how to walk there, how to speak as well…Much of it has now been reconstructed, especially with the added storey for my aunt’s lodgings. But some of the old structure is still here, beckoning at my memory, teasing the little boy in me out of hiding. Now two little devils now stay there: my two little cousins. I hope they have as much joy in this house as I did while growing up.

That house has meant a lot to my grandparents, especially to my grandfather. Tears still spring to my eyes when I remember his last intelligible words at the hospital, directed at me and my youngest uncle.

“Take me back home”, he said. And he kept saying it, like a mantra; as if just saying this kept him alive and conscious. But what could we do? He required urgent treatment and he was too ill to be carried out again, but had we known he would die that very night, we would have taken him to his beloved house.

It’s been a whole year now since he passed away. I’d swear I sometime feel his presence, watching after me and my family..

Well…time for a shower, and then out.

Here is a pic of my mug. There’s some chai in it as well as a spoon. Wow indeed, hehe…


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