What Dreams May Come: love and togetherness

(Talking movies, differently #5)
(Contains spoilers)

‘If you’re happy in a dream, Ammu, does it count?’ Estha asked.
‘Does what count?’
‘The happiness- does it count?’
She knew exactly what he meant.
Because the truth is, that only what counts counts.

If you eat a fish in the dream, does it count? Does it mean you’ve eaten fish?
The cheerful man without footprints- did he count?

God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy

A promise well-kept could mean a kind of heaven, and a whirlpool of nothingness can stand for a kind of hell. What amazes me about What Dreams May Come is that it doesn’t use symbolism to convey hardships in love; rather it uses the medium of imagination to explore a beautiful relationship between Annie and Chris, a kind of love that stays beyond what constitutes a kind of reality.

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The twinklings linger in my sleep, I dream of chocolate rivers.
I leave the Christmas night unbolted and believe that Santa would meet me. That Santa would come.
That there is Santa.
My eyes would burn with sleep and I’ll wait anxiously for Santa to come.
The deep blue sky will walk with me wherever I go. In the night time the moon will follow me wherever I go.
I dream of the rain whispering to me, leaving me with messages of wet lands- green, deep and misty.
I leave messages of my own, in the outer space via my inner space, and hope and hope and I sincerely hope that they would conjoin with their bearers- wholly, fully, completely.
I have carved these places inside myself where beauty is ever evolving and hope immensely freeing;
where warmth forever dwells and love never eludes, never sourly swells.
I sit drinking from chocolate rivers, I wait for Santa too.
I seek the rain to talk to me and I hope my self-talk reaches places, people too.
The child in me still dreams of unicorns, it is bored of mathematical classrooms.
It peeps outside the transparent window, it dances with the clouds,
it chuckles in its imaginations with unicorns prancing about.
An angry voice curtly shouts,
“What are you dreaming about?”
I turn my eyes to the blackboard unwillingly, secretly still dreaming aloud.
I do not know what happened to that child, where he went all this time. He’s gone I feel,
away from me,
away from chocolate rivers,
away from Santa dreams.
I think of unicorns very rarely now. I’m so sure they’re not there.
Yet looking up into the deep, blue, cloudy sky makes me feel
what if they are?

Fiction is Fiction, not reality

I remember my psychology teacher telling us in the character association and gratification class how one of her students exclaimed in her session, “Sex and the City is life!” Well, the conclusion of that class was that Sex and the City is just a show and we watch it, enjoy it and then we have to get back to our lives. We might do things in our real lives which were featured in a fiction but reality is far away from fiction. Now that is one part of the story, a part where the proximity of fiction and reality is close. But what about those unconventional, unimaginable, fanciful stories that are nowhere close to reality?

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