bhaskar saikia

There are nights when the lines between sleep and waking blur, when the worlds we visit in our dreams feel less like fabrications and more like places we’ve been before. They are familiar in a way that makes the dream feel like a continuation, not a beginning. Each night, the same roads, the same faces, the same shadows stretch out ahead of me as if waiting for me to notice.

These recurring dreams, they aren’t just random fragments of my subconscious. No, they are persistent—they haunt me, follow me like old friends. Every time I close my eyes, I see them again. And though the details shift and twist, there’s a resonance, a deeper knowing. A whisper that tells me, this is not fiction. This is something I’ve lived before, or perhaps something I am meant to live.

It’s as though the dreams are a map, each one a piece of a puzzle that, once completed, will reveal something vital. The people I encounter in them feel like echoes of those I’ve yet to meet, or versions of myself I haven’t fully embraced. The places I visit are homes I haven’t moved into yet, but their walls feel oddly familiar, their corners filled with the same dust I’ve always known.

Sometimes I wonder if these dreams are simply fragments of a forgotten truth, a message waiting for me to wake up to it. What if they aren’t just stories spun by my mind in its sleep, but a call from somewhere else—a parallel existence, a past life, or a future yet to unfold?

Not everything we dream is fiction. Some things are just waiting for us to wake up to them.