Every night she would come and whisper in my ears, trying to wake me up, touching me with her cold frightened hands. She would walk anxiously in my room trying to enter my dreams while i dreamt of blue birds and pink stars, of losing only to find again, of hands clasping together, of never letting go. Fantastic dreams of the kind that trouble the nerves when awake. But the mind, determined as it was to have pleasure (however transient and ephemeral), blocked all the entrances.
One day I wake up hearing faint sobbings at the far end of my room. And there I see her looking at me with beseeching eyes begging me to stop the dreams before they conquer the truth and condemn me to a life of illusion, of smoke and mirrors. She told me she had already heard the banshee cry. That the death of the heart was just a matter of time. The dreams were playing games, mind was under their control. The main conspirator , however, was the moon she said. She had seen the dreams in the arms of the moon the night when it was just a sliver, like a broken silver bangle hanging in the sky. The night when it is at its sly best. That ever-changing whimsical enigma who is the creator of all illusions. A part of me will inevitably die she said but asked me to retreat before the whole of me gets consumed in this eternal endless game.
I listen to her in bewilderment and uncertainty. Dreams are just a reflection (though distorted) of reality someone had once said. There ought to be some truth in what I dreamt. Never before had dreams brought such happiness to me. Happiness is all that I want. She cautioned me against this happiness which was only a mirage, a deception. That it would only make me miserable once the reality hits me hard on my face and makes me fall flat on the hard, cold floor of dead dreams and broken mirrors. Then this happiness will turn into the serpent of misery and despair that will tightly wrap itself around me for as long as I breathe.
Since then I have stopped dreaming. No more do those fingers wipe the tears rolling down my cheek, no more does that smiling face walk up to me to brighten my days, no longer do the hands tightly clasp around each other swearing never to let go. I have spent innumerable sleepless nights looking at the moon as it would change its shape at a dizzying pace. I have seen it weaving dreams, loving dreams who become his slaves. I look at it with questioning eyes while it gives me a beatific smile. The master of illusions, the evil sorcerer continues night after night casting its spell on the world giving people what they want - transient, unreal, sinister "happiness".