a short story by Teo Yu Sheng
Someday, this dream will end.
We’ll open our eyes to the blinding light from the sun, and find ourselves comfortably nestled in our beds. The sheets will feel warm, the air will smell the same, and the pages of our unfinished novel will ruffle gently in the breeze. Everything is the same. Yet everything is different.
We’ll flip on the radio and listen to the DJs speak in fake accents, their submission to western superiority both pervasive and deeply superficial. But their voices wouldn’t interest us for long, and soon we’ll find ourselves tuning in to the static trapped between the stations: noisy, restless, and ultimately empty.
Our eyelids will fall heavy, and we’ll climb back into bed as sleep washes over us, and we surrender our minds willingly to it. Again and again, we’ll toss in our beds, as if looking for the spot where our dreams will turn sweet. But we never get there.
And when the dream is truly over, we’ll open our eyes to the bright lights, the warmth, the air, the pages of our novel. Everything is the same once more. How strange, we’ll then think, when finally we learn that time isn’t the only thing that moves on.
Cover art designed by me.