Bedside Popcorn

Imagine walking into a cinema without the need to queue for a ticket. Now as you pass the entrance to the screening halls, there is no one to tab your tickets – you don’t have a ticket! You walk pass. As you walk upon stars on the embroidered carpet of red and blue, you emancipate into a state of calm. You’re now lying on a chair that seems so much like, a bed. You’re wrapped in a cosy warm blanket. You open your eyes and wonder how you skipped the door to the hall, and the search for your seat’s row and number. As you lower your head, it rests upon a marshmallow of a pillow. You exhale in a state of bliss.

You find yourself walking along a street, or sitting somewhere else talking to someone, or observing some de’javu moment. You forget you were in the cinema. You’re now in the movie. You’re the director, you’re the cinematographer, you’re a DVD player, you’re the actor. Every scene plays out in perfect randomness and to some extent, you know what’s going to happen next. But sometimes, you don’t. And anxiety takes over. But that’s part of the suspense, the thrill.

You evanesce into another state. This time, your eyes – slowly adjusting to the light around you, blurness dissipates into a make-up of a table, then the wall, books, and then some. Your move your arms and feel the fur on your cuddly puppy. You smile. You’re awake. You breathe. You shut your eyes for a brief moment to harness whatever strength you find in attempts to remember that scene that just happened. The one that felt so profound, yet so random, yet queer, yet mystical, and sometimes euphoric. Sometimes, sad, emphatic. Sometimes, weird. You open your eyes to realize you cannot remember anything else but snippets. Now, you grasp a movie that has converged into a mere picture. This is one’s fragment of imagination – literally.

This is a dream. You smile. You go back to sleep. But you feel guilty. You wake. You sit up. You smile. You wish. You live.

Leave a Reply