My dreams had always been extravagant and seemingly more enjoyable to me than my real life. The strange world of
imaginations where I rescued the POWs from Somalia to making love to the
Hollywood babes was like a daily chore.
I would often reach the climax on a high note and would wake up with my heart pounding and sinking like the low-high tides of the moving ridges of the sea.
My dreams were the answers to my real life questions. I was more than me, a kind of superhero, the Robin Hood alike in my dreams. Like the Iraqi shoe-throw journalist Muntader al-zaidi who was renowned for his dare devil act on Bush, I would somehow find ways while stargazing to flutter woman’s heart or make political revolutions worthy of being termed and credited for cultural turnarounds too.
Maybe I always dreamt in lieu of waking up as someone else. Maybe I wanted to be somebody that I wasn’t already now.
I loved my dreams more than I loved myself.