The darkness surrounding me was complete, the only light coming from the flickering neon signs in the distance. I was running, my heart pounding in my chest, trying to escape the relentless pursuit of the mechanical monster behind me. I had no idea why it was after me, but its pursuit was relentless, and I could feel its hot breath on my heels.
I ran through streets that seemed familiar, yet somehow different as if I were seeing them through the eyes of a stranger. And then, just as I was about to give up, it caught me, pinning me down with a strength that was beyond human. Its cold metal fingers closed around my neck, pressing into the nerves with a crushing pain that was unbearable.
And then, suddenly, I was awake, gasping for breath, my heart racing. It took me a moment to realize that I was in my own room, that it had all been a dream. But the pain in my neck was real, a dull ache that refused to fade.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare. The scene felt like it had taken place somewhere near the London Bridge railway station, or perhaps within its walls.
The Shard, that towering monument to modernity, had loomed in the distance, surrounded by a swarm of flying machines. It was as if I had been transported to some other time and place, some dystopian future that only existed in my dreams.
And then, as if in response to my fear and confusion, a chorus of birdsong filled the air. It was a jarring juxtaposition, the sweet sound of nature cutting through the mechanical clamour of the dream. For a moment, I couldn’t make sense of it all.
I reached for my phone, searching for some sense of normalcy, but it was nowhere to be found. In my disoriented state, I had kicked it off the bedside table, and it was now lying on the floor, pulsing with a constant blue light. It was a small thing, but it filled me with a sense of unease as if the dream had somehow followed me into the waking world.
For a moment, I hesitated, feeling a sense of dread creep over me. But then, from the other side of the room, I heard the faint sound of the bathroom ventilator. It was a small thing, but it gave me a sense of comfort, a reminder that I was not alone in the house. My housemate Yewon had left early for a three-day vacation in Venice, but her presence lingered in the small sounds of the house.
I got up, stretching my sore muscles, feeling the pain in my foot from an old accident and the lingering ache in my knee and lower leg from a recent attack. It was a constant reminder of the violence that seemed to seep into every aspect of modern life, from the careless driver who had hit me to the policeman who had attacked me outside Buckingham Palace.
As I made my way to the kitchen, the pain in my foot and leg a constant presence, I couldn’t help but think of the state of the world. The political turmoil, the economic hardship, and the endless struggle just to survive. And yet, somehow, in the midst of all that, there was still the beauty of birdsong, the comfort of a friend’s presence, and the simple pleasure of a cup of coffee.
As I continued to type, my mind began to wander, replaying the events of the nightmare in my head. The feeling of dread persisted and was like a dark cloud hovering over me. It felt like a weight was bearing down on my shoulders and I could barely breathe. But as I wrote, something began to shift. I realized that I was not alone in my struggle. There were others out there who had experienced similar pain and trauma. And through my writing, I could give voice to our collective struggles.
It was like my fingers were drawing from a deep well of emotion, and I was able to put into words the raw, unfiltered truth of my experiences. I wrote about the fear and confusion of the nightmare, the pain in my neck, and the memories of past injuries. But I also wrote about the hope and resilience that I found within myself and the determination to keep going, no matter what.
As I poured my heart and soul onto the page, I felt a sense of release. It was like I was shedding the weight of my past and stepping into a brighter future. And then, as I finished typing the final sentence, I heard the ding of my computer.
Curiosity got the best of me and I opened the email. It was from a reader of my blog who shared their own struggles with their emotional and mental health. They thanked me for being open and honest about my experiences, specifically referring to my recent series on dating experiences in Britain. They said my words had given them hope and inspired them to keep going.
Tears welled up in my eyes as I read the email. It was like a beam of sunshine breaking through the clouds, illuminating my soul with warmth and love. For the first time in a long time, I felt truly seen and understood.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders. The nightmares and memories still lingered, but they no longer held the power to crush me. I had found a way to channel my pain into something beautiful and meaningful. In doing so, I discovered a newfound sense of purpose and hope.
As I sat back in my chair, I couldn’t help but feel grateful. The act of writing helped me connect with others and find solace in my darkest moments. And as I gazed out the window, watching the world go by, I felt like I could finally breathe again.
