I Can't Dream Anymore

A young aspirant once came to the great English poet Dryden with a view to learning the art of poetry. Dryden, it is said merely put to him the question, “young man, do you dream dreams?” Dreaming dreams is as essential to poetry as it is to religion perhaps.

In every conscious effort, I feel there is something more consciousness lies somewhere beneath that deep conscious moments always guide me in every step; when I wake up, eat, steps on the stairs, home, office everywhere. That deep apparently unconscious thing is somewhat conscious in normal tone of life. It can't be penned down or explain through words. It's sublime, more of a subtle perception, and not any kind of cerebral aberration.

Nowadays, I can't dream anymore, so no poetry, no dukkha (sadness). Without sadness how can one learn in life? But there is something inside, which is vacant, like an austere desert where I see nothing but far distant land. Waves may roll down, torrents rage, but deep inside the infinite blessedness, it is still, calm. Sometimes, the desert frightens me, it is haunting, mostly in the moments when the darkness deep inside the heart beckons to inscrutable anxiety. The load I carry sinks with all my frail vessels of different ego. It's an incredible light that pushes me face to face with the truth. Nevertheless, the shackles that bind me to this hole of bondage, this misery, this shallowness torment me time to time.

I now find my mind is in a moderately stable state, where there is no emotional excitement, nor the intellectual complexities, which actually provoke me to answer questions without my pointless logical conclusion. I am at peace, but I pretend, and now the pretension is quite habitual. It's like a second skin, even a person can't understand whether I dislike or like. All these are too complex, two levels of life run parallel. In one hand we have everything, to make and change our future, and on the other hand, nothing is in our hands. Somewhere we have to surrender, born with an unshakable faith.