‘The Dream Guardian’s Memoir. Page One-Oh-Three.’

[I greet the humans who will get the chance to fleet the glance over my works. You would think that keepers and rangers are only limited to the human’s birth and death. Grim reapers and soul-carriers and etcetera… Aren’t you beings still so un-advanced? Thus, yet again, you’ve been deceived. There is another separate category which is responsible for your every night’s eight-hour individualized movie. Yes. It’s us, the dream guardians.

Another easily identifiable characteristic of the susceptible human beings, you’re expecting too much now. Off course not every other dream guardian writes, but well, I’ve always had the fascination with unnatural human happenings. Because that happens rarely. Very rarely an average looking human being, carrying so much of non-deciphered thoughts makes me gasp with such bizarre dreams out of their ordinary lives that leave me awestruck. And I can’t let that fantasy glide away without my notice and get settled in the dust of the scrapyard. So I save it in my own human way of journals…

Humans are troubled by their dreams. But they don’t realize the fact that the dreams are more haunted by the capability of the human mind.

This page is my favourite one. It’s the perfect instance of how much does your dreams affect you. And you don’t even have any clue. Until it ruins you.

I can’t say this story has a happy ending. But I won’t say that it’s sad one either.

HEADNOTE = ANIMUS/ANIMA IS A HUMAN PSYCHOLOGICAL DISORDER.]

Page. 103.

The needle skidded ahead and further unstoppably, panting with its every ‘tick.’ The image of a marathon runner, wiping the perspiration from its solemn brow was inevitable. The bird-eye’s view proposed the time to be 1:49 in the afternoon. Her eyes then descended to the mantelpiece where various certificates and trophies were neatly aligned with the antique clock. The lyrics from ‘Girl’s School’; Wings had been artistically printed on the calendar pompously declaring the year of 1976. The Doctorate in Psychology framed and placed at the foremost position silently screamed for the attention. Her vision then darted below to the frenzied beige flames, twirling around the firewood in Paso Doble-tic way.

Every possible technique was being tested out, to shut out the soft hum of the conversation taking place in the same wooden floored room. She had her chin rested on her folded arms which sited on the table. She had still bolted the buzz out of her conscious longer than what she had expected. But now, with a single bat of the eyelash, the reality soaked into her skin from every possible pore opening. Her mum and the Mrs O’Connell were seated not far than few paces from her, talking briskly and gravely about an issue which was guaranteed to change Lydia’s life once again, for the worse. Her ears tensed up on attending to her mother’s weighty and almost detached-tone of the voice.

“… I can’t be sure since when, probably 6 to 7 months now? I’ve told you already it was just the two weeks we got to know about everything. And you’re the first person to whom we have approached. The final blow which will take down the rubbles of the remaining will be undoubtedly the declaration of the plagiarism all over the media.”

Head still rested on her arms, stubborn to break her contact with those coiling flames her mind was into nothing but registering her visionary impulses. Mrs O’Connell’s behaviour reflected that of Lydia’s mom but in an inversely proportionate manner. She was also speaking in a hushed tone but with ever so calming manner which inevitably brought along the sense of pledge she’d taken to solve this matter out.

“Is she your only child Mrs Spencer?” Mrs O’Connell inquired upon her while scribbling something down on her notebook. Mum’s now cold stance was broken by a hesitant eye-dropping and wriggling of her hands. Lydia was so stoned at that instant that she completely forgot how to blink and drew in a sharp breath of air realizing the need of her respiratory system. She had to clear her throat twice before her voice matched the required decibel level, need by Mrs Connell to register anything. Without raising her glance her mother spoke, “We had a son too. Who was about three years older to the girl. But... but then he lost his life in an a…accident.” She completed vaguely. This caught Mrs Connell’s attention, and she drew out her hand and placed it on Mrs Spencer’s, transiting all the warmth her enormous gentle heart had stored for everyone. And spoke in one clear whisper. “What happened to him..?”

Mrs Spencer couldn’t stop shuffling her feet. The unsettlement of this situation was draining all the blood from her face and making her limbs go ice cold. Lydia hadn’t even blinked for once. The bloodshot flames of the fire were now sweltering in her own pupils. “The both of the kids had gone to their father’s construction site to see the progress the enterprise was making under Mr Spencer. Going all around the place, discovering narrow passages and arches until the girl calls out to my son to observe the small channel just below the incomplete mantelpiece. He was leading; Markus… and then he un-expectantly fell into the steep ditch. No one was around that day, it was an Easter holiday. He died at the spot only, after spending around twenty one hours in that ditch. She… the girl sat there for uncountable hours just sobbing and aimlessly calling his name, only if she had got some help and informed not me but anyone, before it was too late. She could’ve saved his life… my boy’s life.” Mrs Spencer’s lower lip trembled as she accused. This was the first mark of any emotion she had displayed this entire visit. She didn’t make any eye contact with Lydia which symmetrized from Lydia’s end as well. Mrs O’Connell quietly analysed the whole situation while pursing down her lips. She had to battle down the urge to mouth “The girl” pointedly at Mrs Spencer as her experience prompted that it wasn’t the appropriate time to voice her opinions. Instead after investing two or more seconds to her personal monologue, she resumed back to taking notes.

Lydia had finally exhaled as her lungs were yelling out the need for unconsumed oxygen. Her thoughtless trance was broken by the unfailingly kind voice. “Pardon me?” Lydia spoke in a husky low tone as she sat upright from her slouching posture, befuddled.

“I asked you before, that I need a recount of the complete happening Lydia. All that, you’ve been experiencing lately.”

Guilt, isolation, deficiency of affection and constant effort for the redemption she had been experiencing since she was eight. But what were the recent unwanted additions? Her numb brain slowly was gathering the heat and power to respond to the questions her mind had ignored for long. She started off with the sorting of the ‘wanted’ and the ‘unwanted’ additions. She listed down all the approachable embellishments.

1. She had finally got her life back where she had actually started to live by not just breathing, but, with feeling too. Her interest and passion for the oil paints and canvass was given much attention on the mass public levels. She had received immense fame and encouragement and made truckloads of pounds within a single art gallery display. Her talent for the eccentric portraits was the unquestioningly hyped talk of the year.

2. She had finally received that love she had been starving off for twelve years by her well-off parents, who had treated her just a unit above all the servants in their mansion. Her mother and father had then accepted her as their daughter and didn’t critically cringe anymore whenever the words “mother” and “father” escaped from Lydia’s lips.

3. She had formed a bond with someone. A bond which was closest to that of friendship. Someone, who actually made any effort to mould her ideas, her vision and contributed so much to build up the exact depiction she had viewed and visited to in her dreams. Yes, in her dreams she often travelled to various breathtakingly-beautiful places with no one, but just a single companion. And every time, the man never failed her with his absence, but would be always available to lead her by hand and push aside the wild mulberry bushes so that the desired scenario was right in her view. There was never any exchange of words, but just the exchange of ideas. He would suggest and display and she would draw. He would point at the beauty settled on horizon, and she would nod. After she was woken up by the pool of her own tears and sweat, she would hop out from her bed, grab some paints along-with canvass and started to spill the retarded mystic all over. Recounting the exact scene was somehow the work of great mental road test and profuse perspiration, but to overcome the problem, all she had to do was to close her eyes, feel the touch of his hand on hers which had been there a while before and respire with complete lung capacity.

But then the undesired add-ons overshadowed her heated up brain with the similar tranquillity.

1. Her masterpieces, her gained stack of commendations and her ideas were not completely of hers. It was that man’s work of sweat and hard work who presented her with those beautiful thoughts which had been never imagined before by any mind before. She had just drabbed on some colour on to the tabloid for the others to see. This added on the weight of guilt her subconscious mind was carrying everywhere she went, loyally never leaving her side.

2. Her parents on finding the secret saviour retreated to their hostile and unfeeling shell. This was predictably followed by the disownment to the fact of the existence of their daughter who was sharing the same last-name. It often provoked Lydia to think that if she had been another son to her parents, the possible owner of her father’s possessions and the heir of his business, the adversity would have been easily deceived. But alas, she was just another misfortunate girl targeted for the bias.

3. The last thing that she was about to put in the list was encountered with much debate as this kind of apprehension wouldn’t be good enough for the outsiders to consider, at the moment. The main reason for her visit to this small, wood-floored cabin was intended by her worn-out parents to discover who that mysterious boy was. As according to the ambiguous details provided by their daughter, it was impossible for them to find a tangible boy. For Lydia, this was the site to lose her only ray of hope of developing a real sense of belongingness. And it was on the verge of getting smashed. Just like everything else in her life.

It was as if her spine was frosted and the violent chills hauled her out of her better world, like an atrocious beast who venerated the realism with ferocity. Lydia could feel her lips go taut as she lifted her head to look at the psychologist. She was still as a beautiful ivory carved statue. Patience spurting in her veins, Mrs O’Connell hadn’t moved a single inch nor was she shuffling her feet.

Once again, her Lydia’s mother took over the interrogation mis-conceptualized as the burden of her own.

“How expect a single honest answer from her? She thinks about a dozen times before answering for her own name. I’ll help you out Mrs Connell, It was sixteen days ago to be precise. As usual, just before the dawn breaking in, she started to screech and cry. That day all the servants were busy with the preparations for the grand party, which was going to be held for the celebration of the launch of her new gallery. So, I wasn’t left with any option except to go and look out for her before her screams could wake up Mr Spencer too. And when I entered her room, she was muttering rapidly to herself. At first I thought she was awake, so I just stood by the door, waiting for her to take my notice. But then I soon realized she was sleep talking. It was too rapid and low for me to understand anything, but as I strained my ears harder, she woke up with the first rays of the dawn and charged out of the bed. Straightaway grabbed her material, some paints… and paper and just start to colour and draw like a retard. The sight was so frightening Mrs Connell, her messy hair clamped with sweat and panting furiously but not being able to stop working out those paints. It was as if she was undergoing some sort of fit or mental breakdown. I couldn’t advance further; I needed some time to grip the whole concept. So I mutely returned. But the next day, no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t grab any sleep. Thence, I tip-toed to her dorm and sat by the side observing her as she slept. There was nothing at first, she was sleeping soundly, but then with the frequent stirs came the sleep talking. And it was then when I got to know about her daily encounters with ‘that’ guy. She would always ask him that where they were going today and then amidst gasps she would whisper the details about the place. About the beautiful doe being trapped in the moulds of dead sands of the desert or… or even the new world awaiting beneath the sea bed. She would whisper such appalling yet stupefying things, which would leave my breath racing. The paintings? They were dutifully the precision of her whispered details.

As I lost my sleep, I added on to my own pile of incubuses. Each night, the boy would take her to a completely new dwelling and point at the marvel of the hues. It was until I completed dozen of my nights that I decided to question her about the man and drag her into the gravity of the situation. I knew she had lost her mind, but I couldn’t afford to lose mine as well. However, no matter how much I comforted her and pressed her upon to know the details of the man, she would always shut me out by those repetitive vague replies. She would never accept that she was secretly meeting a boy behind our backs and all those planned visits… I could sense everything tumbling down. The career, fame and money. Mrs O’Connell, do you have any clue what will the reaction of the crowd and media will be, when they’ll get to know the actual mind behind these masterpieces? They will be consumed by their rage. Everything we ever achieved will be demolished in seconds. It’s really important to find that man before any outsider does. That man will continue to pose the threat to our name until unleashed. It all depends upon you now; we know that she’s lying. So we expect you to talk this matter out with her in your own way and come up with a name and a face.”

Lydia who had been staring at her mother’s face seemingly unblinking and un-breathing clenched her jaws when she finished instructing. Caught up in the jiffy, she turned her head to face the lady as she probed gently, yet unwaveringly. Connell had changed her position to the cross legged veteran professional, with curiosity settling in her iris and carrying an un-negotiable mutual likeliness with the person seated obverse.

“Have you ever met that person before?”

“Yes. When I’m in my dreams, he visits daily.”

“Except for that… have you ever met him, when you’re conscious? Probably, you would’ve bumped into him the other day and his face got stuck in your head. Try to recall.”

Lydia coughed twice, considering the question and rinsing her throat which had been out of use for some time then.

“No, Mrs Connell. I don’t even remember his face. It gets too vague whenever I try to recollect it.” She frowned and bit her lower lip.

“Err… Do you think, well, like you know, it might be your brother?” Mrs Spencer inhales sharply and straightens up her slouch. This is disregarded by her daughter and starts shaking her head vigorously.

“If you could drag the ceased people in your dreams regularly and could make a talk to their living souls, I’m sure you could’ve found a way to resurrect them too.” Lydia smiled sarcastically, wide enough to make it visible to her mum as well. The inquisitiveness in Connell’s eyes had now taken a marginally solidified state. And her face pondered as she worked through the complexities of the case on her hard-bind notebook. Amidst the scratching ruffle of her pencil, Connell tried to keep the conversation going.

“How are you so sure that it’s not your brother? That means you must remember something about that person, right?”

“I know that for certain because…because Markus had pale hair. But, the guy has some darker shade. It could be black or some shades darker or lighter than my own. And, perhaps you’ll think this is stupid, but I think… that if Markus had been alive today, he would’ve grown on to be really tall. A lot more inches that what I am right now. So, well. The man is relatively a lot shorter. Uhm, yes. This is all that I can gather.” Her mum’s eyes widened as this was the maximum amount of information that had been ever provided by her deranged daughter.

There, Mrs Connell had halted all of a sudden as soon as Lydia had done with her description of his height. She didn’t look up and gasped, but just got petrified and kept on contemplating the text she had just scribbled on her notebook. Her vision pierced through the book, and one could bet she had her stare focused on to the creases of her skirt. There was a curve on her lips, which Lydia thought it to be a slender smile.

“I guess, we’ve talked enough for today. I and your mother have to do some talking, so you stay put here. And oh, yes! Just knot this one thing in your mind. Lydia, no one else, but you’re the only one who can unlock this mystery. No matter how much talking I do, or how much your parents pressurize you, it all depends on you in the end. “

The psychiatrist stooped closer to Lydia, in order to make her velvet voice audible for just her troubled patient. “ Remember, focus on the rear.” Mrs Connell had then shut her book, and her chair dragged backwards as she rose up. She brightly smiled inconspicuously to Mrs Spencer, who was eyeing her with the scrunched nose, when she missed on the last murmurs of the talk. Connell lead the way out, to a different and perhaps, a distant lodge, where they could have their discussion.

The fire in the fireplace continued to chortle and gurgle tauntingly at her, a bit more evidently now, as the room was empty. Lydia resumed to her chin rested on her folded arms position without being conscious now. Though her head was aching with such intensity, as if it had been served amongst the firewood to the famished flames, with the napkin tucked in its collar and holding the cutlery in each of its hands.

She closed her eyes, to give them some cool. What she didn’t know was that as she enetered her short slumber, she was soon going to be slapped back into the prison of authenticity that would be guarded by the two vicious world renowned keepers-

The rationality and consciousness.

(This is my favourite part. )

I bet you’ve seen the captivating way the drops of colour added by the dropper dissipate into the untouched, clear liquid. It swirls, twirls and whirls a bit more until the cloud of tinted fluid starts to emerge humungous. Then with the measure of each second, it slowly triumphs over the colourless matter. Neither the liquid was confined in a container and nor it was part of any scientific experiment. It was the ungoverned sky we were talking about. It was rapidly changing hues. From iris to turquoise and to further more unnamed colours it had been blending briskly. Lydia then stopped distending her neck above and instead looked down to the uneven floor. When she comprehended the reason of the patchiness of the ground, she lost her balance as her eyes bulged out and her body quivered stickily. Hastily, with the support of her fists, she stood up and started to walk regressively. She was in the desperate attempt to rescue herself… from her own self. She was standing on the pile of her own portraits. Every image she had ever attempted to draw was strewn on the surface. She hated the fact that she was stepping on those gorgeous creations, but there was no choice to it, even if she had to run away. She started going back and feebly strained her eyes at the horizon searching for any sign of life but to her disappointment. Frantically as she moved, she kept on switching her vision from the canvass scattered ground to the horizon which too was thickly carpeted by the countless portraits. Aimlessly she ran her hand through her caramel hair which supplemented her same shaded eyes.

And when she turned around, she found life.

The boy was standing some forty steps away. His right hand was in his pants pocket and left hand was placed casually on his corresponding shoulder. He suddenly dropped his hands when he caught Lydia’s sight. Lydia pleasingly waved at him and the man who was too contented immediately responded with a big wave. Just when the atmosphere turned into a rich indigo, a voice boomed out from the source unfathomable and rung into her ears, “Remember, focus on the rear.”

The echoes of the velvet voice were loud enough to make her feel dizzy, but still the words, “… Focus on the rear…” kept on reverberating like the innumerable drizzle droplets transcending down on the painted barren land. When the echoes gradually died out, Lydia then transfixed her determined gaze at the familiar stranger who apparently looked a bit shaken by the voice. While she was debating whether to walk to him or not, she saw him advancing a step ahead. Before she knew, she was walking towards him. And they both were covering the distance which lay in between. While her brain faithfully chanting to focus on the rear, she was blushing heavily inside, her jaws were clutched as she best tried to hide her smile. Having covered half of the distance, she could make out his half smirk though his face, which was still vague. She could feel her heart elevating to her neck as his face drew a concrete picture. She knew she was staring right into his eyes, and he was into hers. There was something distinctive and familiar about his eyes. No matter even if she was in an absolute bliss at that time, his honey-coloured eyes pierced harshly into her soul. Something was certainly wrong; the telepathy level was at its pinnacle as his smirk was now dropped abruptly sensed something erroneous. When the distance of just half dozen steps was left amid them, subconscious was finally given the higher say in her actions. And it was the subconscious, who suggested that ridiculous, unreasonable answer that her surroundings were dying to know. Who was the man?

Even though she had given the senior administrative power to her intuitive nudges, but yet the final listing of the conclusion had to include the approval nods of the conscious brain too. And well, the bewildered conscious brain needed the ultimate proof.

So she covered the rest of the distance in three steps, and no pending steps were remaining. She silently hoped that she would feel his breath on her face. But, she didn’t. She glanced up at the man, who was completely perplexed. But when she raised her hand, he didn’t delay a single microsecond to follow her lead. She was soon going to touch him. And solve this mystery out. She was sure her mental prayers were being heard by him too. As her hand reached out to touch his, the mystery unveiled itself.

The touch felt cold, deficient of any kind of warmth. The metal isn’t supposed to feel comforting, you know. The mirror is supposed to haunt your interiors and provide you with the vision of the exterior judgments and allegations. Her hand stayed on the mirror, as she gawked one last time at her own reflection of short honey coloured hair and similarly, caramel eyes. She marvelled at the reflection. ‘How stunning she would have been if she was born a boy.’ The sky stopped camouflaging and went taut off-white. It was when Lydia opened her eyes.

She lifted her head from her folded hands which were outstretched on the table. The fire in the firewood had now died out. But it gave occasional grunts and snorts, disapprovingly. She rubbed her eyes and when she sat upright, she saw Mrs Connell seated contentedly at her armchair, holding a mug of steaming tea, staring rapidly at her. There was the molten lava of silver flowing in her iris. Along-with the smile. Lydia turned her head at the right to behold the stacks of books and magazines settled on the shelf. But the thing she was hunting for was below the little library. Below the library, resided her life.

Stained bottles of paints, some overused paintbrushes and yes, the yellow-turned canvas paper.

[FOOTNOTE = The anima and animus, in Carl Jung's school of analytical psychology, are the two primary anthropomorphic archetypes of the unconscious mind, as opposed to both the theriomorphic and inferior-function of the shadow archetypes, as well as the abstract symbol sets that formulate the archetype of the Self. The anima and animus are described by Jung as elements of his theory of the collective unconscious, a domain of the unconscious that transcends the personal psyche. In the unconscious of the male, this archetype finds expression as a feminine inner personality: anima; equivalently, in the unconscious of the female it is expressed as a masculine inner personality: animus.

I’m not an evil spirit lurking into the dark tampering through your brains, as any stereotypical mind would consider it to be.

I’m just saner than humans.]