Dream factory

I work in a dream factory.

Every night, I am made to wear a uniform—a mercurial night gown, a soft pillow helmet and a blank slate drawn from a wide-eyed stare.

I have to park my worldly soul, spare angst and ideals inside a locker.

Now, go.

I am told to begin work with tired eyes.

They blink, each fold heavier than the last, until it turns dark.

The bed to be unmade, the day to be undone.

And I am ready to see how my shift ends,

But only to forget it the day after.

“Start dreaming,” says the boss,

“Start working,” was what he meant.

I see desires packed in boxes.

Goals run free in the assembly line.

Leaky fantasies capped.

Ambition comes with tags, taxes and tariffs.

Create them. Deliver them to their very doorstep.

The factory leaves me dry, drive drained as I pass through the gates made of linen sheets.

And I am frisked by this stretch of warmth.

“Why can’t I bring my own dreams home?” I asked.

“Nothing personal. Just work,” so I am reminded.

Here, I am not allowed to have dreams of my own.

But in protest, I keep fragments hidden in the corners of my mind,

The few seconds are kept, and I hide them where the mind’s eye could not see.

For if imagination fetches a high price in the dream factory, as I am told,

and I am tired, damn tired, doing it for others,

then why can’t I make use of it to escape this and have my own?

So there.

This is what it comes to then.

My realization. My waking hour.

I have to earn my keep when I am awake.

And tomorrow, I am working for my own dream.