Dream A Little Dream
As far as I remember, I deemed of a pool before I slept last night. And as I woke up this morning, I still remember what my dream was. I kinda forgot what the exact setting, though.
There was some unusual sensation about the place. It is squalid in any other way I see it.
Then, I rekindle a place like Mojave Desert in Southeastern California. It was like I’m battling in a dry and deserted place.
And then a fishing rod. Yes, a hard-to-find fishing equipment. It is so sophisticated. There was a young man sitting at the edge of the weird pool. The man – the same age as I am, perhaps – held the rod and tried to tweak the fishing reel when something got the interest of the bait.
I came over to talk to him. We talked a lot of things, which by the way, I could no longer remember. But there was one thing that stuck in my mind.
“She loves you,” he said, busy in altering his weight as he finally caught a big fish.
To our surprise, we found ourselves swimming in that bizarre pool. The oddness of the water and the pool itself passed out as I dove to the bottom.
Tasting the soda-like water, I felt an open space halfway. I had no choice but to swoop effortlessly just to reach the bottom of the pool.
Autumn leaves fell down as I reached the base. I searched for him; shouted his name. He never showed up.
“Energetic in fishing, eh?” I thought.
Despite being in a different place, I still felt the tile-based walkway that I was striding in. At the end of the pool (there was an ending, in fact), I found a growing staircase. At my extent astonishment, I sped up back to the pool’s water level, passing by the same sensation.
When I caught up the real world, I landed in Mojave Desert. Mountains, Grand Canyon, sand and …
And her being. As far as I remember, something kept on telling me, “The bait! The bait!”
Moon, unusual it was, bestowed a striking light.
The dawn basked the lids of place’s little dens. In the center, the square was as quiet as ever. The silence was the worst commotion settlers had affronted.
Vacacio annoyed to the idea of striding to Tabuk’s small-scale alley every day.
Now, Vacacio yawns inside his small kitchen while preparing toasted coffee beans for his breakfast. The sun is up so ner and he has to move quickly before everyone in the market makes merciless hoarding of architectural supplies.
“Asleep Kitty?” Vacacio notions, gripping a hot coffee in one hand.
“Do not worry. I’ll build you a good shed later this afternoon,” he said, with compassion, to the sleeping cat that snores in supine position. His morning mackinaw drapes the cat’s furriness.
It never bothered, for a century or so, for Tabuk-based people to light a little affair as feasts do.
Oh, it happened once, however not as carousal–or shindig, ball or whatever—as it usually goes. This occurrence transpired again after exactly 20 years.
For once, the 20-year-old facade of Tabuk did experience countable gatherings. The founding of this land was the most glorious time grandfathers have ever discovered.
“Where is it?” voices of three hooded men came out, in sync; the veil that covered their heads revealed their homely clean-cut faces as they went out from different directions.
Strangely enough, the three men seemed to be on a same kin—occasional growth of hair, white as dove’s beard, deep and narrow eyes.
“It’s here,” they all replied.
As they departed, the very soil of Tabuk left an engraved, circular cement-like mud that slowly moved to the nearest barn, threatened to move to life anytime sooner.
The wet dirt, as it became, stayed and motioned lively. It waited for someone to touch it.