bhaskar saikia

I have always dreamt in poetry. Not in the structured verses of a sonnet or the rhythmic cadence of a ballad, but in fleeting, surreal images—fragments of another reality that whisper secrets only my subconscious understands. These dreams have shaped me, turning the mundane into the extraordinary, making every moment feel like a verse waiting to be written.

One particular dream still lingers, its presence heavier than the rest. It was a recurring vision—mysterious, familiar, yet always just out of reach. At first, I brushed it aside as a figment of my imagination, a nocturnal trick my mind played on itself. But then, it happened. A moment in my waking life unfolded exactly as I had seen it in my dreams, down to the smallest detail—the way the light slanted through the window, the words spoken, the way my pulse quickened with the eerie recognition of déjà vu.

That was the moment something shifted. My perception of reality fractured ever so slightly, allowing me to see the poetry hidden within the everyday. I started journaling these experiences, recording my dreams with the same care one might preserve an ancient manuscript. And the more I wrote, the more I saw: surrealism in the reflection of rain-slicked streets, stories hiding in the folds of passing conversations, metaphors nestled in the silence between words.

Perhaps that is what poetry truly is—not just ink on paper, but a way of seeing, of feeling, of capturing the intangible essence of existence. My writing became an exploration of this, blending the ephemeral nature of dreams with the starkness of reality. I no longer separate the two; they intertwine, inseparable, like waves meeting the shore.

I wonder—have you ever experienced something similar? A moment so strange, so impossibly poetic, that it made you question whether you were awake or still dreaming? If so, perhaps you too are a dreamer, a poet of the unseen, forever caught between worlds.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s where all great stories begin.