It was in midnight.
Some cops were out
With crazy archaeologists
For a corpse
Who was lying next to my balcony.
I went outside
Away from everyone’s sight
And the chasing lights
Dig that grave
As fast and deepest as I could
Cause beneath the soil
A mystery was resting.
I took that on my shoulders,
Leaving everything as it is—
Running towards the horizon
And was lost with the rays of sunrise.
But then, the plot twist
I was watching myself doing that
And these dreams have hunted me thrice.
Yet this time, when I turned to flee with the mystery,
I found the world shifting
My shadow separated from my steps,
And the corpse beside the balcony
Raised its hand, beckoning me back.
The cops’ flashlights flickered, morphing into lanterns
held by those archaeologists, now chanting forgotten hymns.
Suddenly, the soil beneath my feet began to whisper,
Ancient voices threading through the roots
pulling me downward and upward at once.
As the horizon dissolved into morning’s gold,
I realized I hadn’t just watched—I was two people:
The one running
And the one always left behind,
Digging, burying, chasing, escaping
In the labyrinth of my own sleep.
And in that final moment,
A detective—who looked exactly like me—
turned, caught my gaze,
and handed me the shovel.
The dream’s haunting, now, is not a chase—
but a looping revelation
That I am both seeker and the secret,
Buried and unearthing—
A restless journey between worlds,
Midnight and sunrise,
Watcher and doer,
Forever digging
for the truth
inside myself.
Short Story -
It
was always midnight when it began.
The world outside my window glowed in blue sirens and whispered chaos. A few
cops stood beneath my balcony, murmuring into radios, while a group of
archaeologists—wild-eyed and dust-covered—picked through the gravel as if they
were searching for a relic instead of a body. A corpse lay there, stiff, cold,
and strangely familiar.
Curiosity,
or something deeper, pulled me out of my room. I stepped outside—quietly,
cautiously—keeping out of everyone’s sight. The air tasted like metal. The
flashlights swept across the ground like searching souls, but I slipped past
their light.
Something
told me to dig.
I
don’t know why, but I knelt beside the grave, my hands clawing through the wet
soil. The earth was heavy, but it felt alive—breathing, pulsing, resisting.
Beneath that soil, something was waiting for me. Not an artifact, not a secret
from history, but a mystery—ancient and personal, resting beneath the
surface of everything I thought I understood.
When
I finally found it, I lifted it onto my shoulders. It was weightless yet
unbearable, glowing faintly like the memory of something I had lost long ago.
Without looking back, I ran—past the police, past the flashing lights, past the
balcony where it had all begun. I ran toward the horizon, chasing the faint
warmth of sunrise.
And
then, everything shifted.
I
wasn’t running anymore. I was watching myself run. From above, from afar, from the
corner of some waking consciousness that refused to believe this was real. The
scene repeated—again and again. Each time I reached the horizon, the sun
swallowed me whole, and I woke up trembling. It had happened three times
already. Each dream identical, each ending the same.
But
this time, something changed.
When
I turned to flee with the mystery again, the world began to warp. My shadow
broke free from my steps, walking beside me instead of behind me. The corpse
that once lay silent by my balcony moved—its hand rose slowly, calling me back.
The
cops’ flashlights dimmed and stretched into lanterns. The archaeologists—those
strange, sleepless diggers—were no longer speaking in English. They chanted in
tongues that sounded older than time. The ground trembled beneath me,
whispering through its roots. I could hear voices—ancient, melodic,
sorrowful—pulling me both downward into the soil and upward toward the light.
And
then the sunrise came—not as light, but as revelation.
I
wasn’t just one person. I was two.
The one who ran, and the one who stayed behind.
The one who buried, and the one who kept digging.
The one who searched for truth, and the one who hid it.
The
entire dream folded into itself like a loop. The soil, the corpse, the cops,
the light—all were reflections of me, each version of myself chasing the other
through layers of time and memory.
And
there, at the end, a detective appeared.
She looked exactly like me—same eyes, same trembling hands. She turned, met my
gaze, and silently handed me the shovel.
In
that instant, I understood.
The
haunting wasn’t the dream repeating—it was me, circling my own truth. I wasn’t
being chased. I was chasing myself. The corpse was my forgotten self, the
archaeologists were my curiosity, and the detective—my conscience.
I
was both the seeker and the secret.
The buried and the unearthing.
Caught forever between midnight and sunrise—between what I know and what I am
still trying to uncover.
And
so the dream doesn’t end.
Each night, it begins again.
The digging continues.
Because the truth, perhaps, is not found in what we unearth—
But in the one who never stops searching.
In the end, maybe we’re all just digging through our own darkness—trying to find the part of ourselves we buried long ago.
So this was me — CH, signing off for today.
Until next time, keep dreaming.
And remember — dreams aren’t always random.
Sometimes, they’re reflections of who we are…
the unseen, unexplored side of ourselves, quietly waiting to be found. 🌙
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