Oddly, insomniac.

Which isn’t to do with the exams, or so I assured myself (the possibility of it is, well, impossible), and certainly didn’t have to do with a whole bunch of unwanted thoughts that haunt in the middle of the night.

I just couldn’t sleep, no matter how tired.

But if there’s something good out of it, I’d say is that, somehow, it gave me dreams that are both vivid and strangely intriguing. Dreams which I wake up from, waiting to disperse and make sense, and then quietly “Huh,” at. And then I’d find myself awake sometime before the initial alarm, more sober and conscious than I’d liked.

The one I remembered most, not without its reasons, was the one two days ago. The dream had shifted from something that had to with beds and lamplights to a full-fledge murder scene. There was a dead body, and a lot of blood, and when I moved closer I realised that it was Wendy (from class) lying face down in her own puddle of crimson plasma.

I think I went, oh shit. Then someone spoke to me.

“Don’t pity her. Don’t pity at all.”

I’m not. “What happened?”

“Got whacked. Pissed off the wrong people. Clean and jerk. Professional.” He lit a cigarette.

“Who did she piss off?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he tipped me a wink.

And then he went away.

The CSI team moved in; Kelvin was among them, and he went Haha grimly while taking the blood sample. I realised it was not my scene, and walked away. Someone passed me a towel and sat me by the ambulance, like I was a fire victim. A hot cup of chocolate was put into my hands. I didn’t remember if I had tasted it.

It was like the ending of a Die Hard movie; throngs of ambulances, police patrol cars, the red-and-blue lights dancing and intercepting each other. A medic checked my eye, asked me for my name, and then walked away sniffing. She was quite pretty. I don’t know if I’ve seen her before.

That was when the dream shifted into something else, this time to do with watching a movie. Casablanca was on. (This, here, was when I woke up).

I had thought of telling someone about it, or write it down as a story (it struck me as one that’s fun to write), but the day drove it off my mind.

And today, halfway through Newspaper Management, I imagined it as a stage musical. Starring the class. The poster of the play is titled The Blob(:Not The Horror Movie, Please).

Somehow, that amused me.