Tuesday, 2 June 2015

I wish I could explicitly describe the dream. If only I master the craft of playing with words. The dream was one of the best, one of the most relatable story to my own self. It was something more than just a story line, something more than just emotion that it draped me into. It was as if reality was there, and it was all my life was about traveling. To jump into story then into another story, and to have discovered the essence of life in each tale being told.


At that moment, I was doing some organizational work in a quite room located top right of a buiding. It wasn't coherent of what I was doing, but it was something about a business that our organization was working out. Selling some stuff (also unknown) in a box, so I got to pack them up. Later I was waiting for someone (I don't know who) on a bench with a long table, like the one we had in our school canteen. With me was my Samsung Galaxy Tab S, the usual 8.4” kept in a blue pouch of which I carried almost everywhere. Not long after, my father coming from nowhere picked me up and he said in his own cringe of excitement, we gotta go somewhere. I convincedly tailed him from behind.

The next moment I remembered was that time when we was in an underground train central. It was a vision I was dumbfounded with. Many trains of our left and right side were speeding towards and away from us.


We were on board the train. My tab wasn't with me, and remembered that it was on the table I was sitting earlier on. I was quite worried because I need to read my lecture notes since my barrier exam for my year 1 MBBS was coming, due in 1 month. My dad said, no dont worry, forget all those stuff and just enjoy this moment because we are going to Sparta. Or Spanish... Well, I don't quite remember which country did he say, but it somehow was a country starting with “Sp___”. But it couldn't be Spanish because Spanish is a language not a country. But between Spanish and Sparta, I think I heard my dad said Spanish more than Sparta. But Sparta then? It was so historical.

I decided to walk away from my dad just to explore what we had on the train. The train was very spacious, not rectangle as it had always been but square in size. They had this casual atmosphere especially when they arranged a circular couch centralised upon a small table in the middle. On the couch many people were chit-chatting. At the brink of my vision field, I saw some kids playing around behind the couch. The train was not posh like the casino house I often saw in the telly but relatively luxurious in comparison to any train I had been onto. I walked to my right, asking myself of what to read since my tab was not with me. An old man,who was much shorter for his age, walked towards me. An arabic name flashed through my mind when I looked at him, Muhammad (sth) (sth) (I don't remember. It was a dream right, I am not suppose to remember everything). I assumed that must be his name. He looked like a wise and friendly man. If I could guess, he might be a professor of a university. He offered me to come into his room where he had some books I might like, then he went away. I turned my head to my right where I saw a readily opened door to a room (or maybe there wasn't any door at the first place, I'm not sure). I entered.

The room was small. And the feeling was as if I was in a room of a new house. It didn't have the smell of a new house, but just the vacant feeling. Or maybe the plain look of it. A room with a white-painted wall with no furniture other than three tables occupied with books. There was also a window with two panels. The view outside was green pokok pisang and the green wired gates most middle-class Malaysian house would have. It was the view of my backyard of my house back then in Shah Alam. (This was weird because I was in a train, but nothing can be more strange than any dream). The books he had were also unusual. There were printed in large size, like the size of the canvas painters always used to draw their arts, only that these were books not painting. I grabbed one of them with both hands. Didn't read the title before putting it back, I saw a giant drawing of ships. Few flashes of books with ships in their plots came into my mind. I didnt read or open any of the books as they were sealed with plastic wrapper. Owen. I didn't know where I saw this name. It was the only name of an author that flashed out in my head before exitting the room.

(I googled the name as I wrote this. And Google Images served me with this Michael Owen, a footballer name.. which sounds not quite right. Owen should be like the name of an author of the classic english time no? Or maybe a character of a classic english literatute I read. Or maybe just the Owen Shaw from FastFurious)

I walked to the another train coach. I hope to see people I know. Shrill of  surprise travelled down my spine when I saw three of my cousins sitting on the couch, crowded with people around them. They were Mak Whe's daughter. Mak Whe was my auntie, my mom's sister. I was jovial to see them. I hugged them and we talked for some moments. After that I moved to another coach. I saw my dad sitting with his arms wide spread on the shoulder of the couch. His legs were crossed. He wore sky blue t-shirt. My dad was smiling at me. Not the cheesy kind of smile, but the smile of a father to a daughter. The glimpse of pride at the corner of his smirking lips. 

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