Chamomile Tea
Those Phenomena of Dreams…
Free falls and seas made of grass, silent screams, and sandstorms where the sand is not sand but water projectiles, accompanied by the chirping of creatures with too many legs. Fifth floors without roofs and the occasional binary misstep. Unknown faces and ambidextrous fears, barren lands, and once again, those screams that crash and rebound on a flat planet, clearly conjured by the circuits of my brain as it takes a brief reprieve from reality.
Dreams are the expectorant of the ordinary; through them, imagination unravels, stretches, and elongates like the face of a child mid-tantrum. In dreams, glasses shatter, temples split, eardrums rupture, and the universe’s throat opens wide, pouring over the sobriety of the heart. Blessed is the dreamer who discovers new rhythms on the other side, unspoken consonants, unimaginable colours, and fresh ways to breathe, walk, and toy with the balance of order and chaos. Blessed is the squanderer of convention, for in creation, nothing is ever scarce; everything is excess, ripe for the taking.
Blessed is the one who lets go, who strolls backwards without regret, who devours with the stomach and digests with the mouth the succulent spring of being, overwhelmed yet ever-hungry for the endless feast of existence. (Now more poetic and metaphysical.)
I swear, in dreaming, the soul is weightless. There’s no alpha, no omega, no good, no evil. Dreaming simply is, requiring no permission. It exists, self-contained and infinite, like a fragrance that sneaks into the memory uninvited, lingering forever in the echoes of pain and beauty, whether from yesterday or an entire past life.
What an untamed freedom: no control, no thoughts, no shape, no reason. In a dream, I am the cat’s yarn ball, the chameleon’s favourite fly. Waking leaves me orphaned, as though a part of me remains “there,” adrift in that dimension of absurdities and contradictions. Soy realmente libre.
Every time night falls, I celebrate the ritual with chamomile tea, honouring the singularity, the richness, and the boundless strangeness of what I’m about to encounter. My skull becomes an antenna, tuned to melodies encouraged by the swans gliding through my pillow. And then, the show begins. Electric contractions twitch my lips. I’m pursued by creatures unknown, sometimes evading them, sometimes longing to be caught. Earthquakes rumble through my belly, shaking buildings that spit me from their rooftops. I fall, disassembling into Rubik’s cubes of bone, each piece cracking—crack, crack—as I struggle to solve the puzzle of myself.
I’ve learned this: the louder I scream, the deeper I dream. The last time I let out a cry, I died… only to remember, with sudden clarity, that I was still dreaming.
