Images

I was in an old room. Spacious, with wide windows to one side, a high ceiling with an old fan turning on eternal momentum, and slightly fading walls, resplendent in their silence. An old room, at night, the soft creaking of the fan, as I lay down. And I see a human hand, severed at the forearm, resolutely crawling down the floor towards me. Again and again, I felt it come near and go away. Sometimes into the other room, where it pranced about, the horrible hand. I could then see it, through the open door, play among the slippers. A resolute hand, light blood stains giving it character.

I got up after some time and pursued it. I had to throw it away. I had to conquer it. Defeat it. I ran after it, the old rooms like a soft mirage, the hand crawling through invisible cobwebs. I ran out after it into the balcony. It tried to hide under the open window. I reached out, with my feet, and clasped it. I pulled it towards me, and tried to throw it outside. It landed back inside. I caught it and threw it out again. This time it fell, down below. Into another man's dream.

This may seem absurd. But it had the taste of a nightmare. I felt disturbed for some time, after waking up. It was a nightmare. I thought of some meaning the dream could have had. Something I should do. Some hidden purpose. And then I realized with a jolt, I was searching for meaning. My mind was craving for some meaning. But there isn't any. A dream means nothing. It is a fragment, forever ambiguous. It says nothing. It has no purpose.

I may see my hand again. I think it sneers at me. Maybe we will become friends.