Mandamus, says the Brain.

Just wrapped up the last dribble of work for the day. It hasn’t been a fruitful; I was plagued by lack of concentration and, eventually, disrupted by a dinner I didn’t want to go but went anyway out of due respect.

(The dinner, lamentably, was a cramped thing where there were too many people at a single table and the food were cold when I arrived, because I was late fetching a colleague home).

Tomorrow, by golden hooks and or by professional crooks, I must complete my weekend quota.

*****

I hate my dreams lately. Mostly for the fact that they are never real and that, in a way, they annoyingly serve to remind me certain things that make me feel all the more despondent when I woke.

It’s like in some why, my brain has decided on a more direct approach, and issued a writ of mandamus so that I get cracking on stuff. Proving a point by saying that We command. We compel. We decide.

Well, fuck you too. Start by making me work smarter.

(Something throbbed. In the cranium. I’m sorry).

More frustrating is the fact that these dreams felt real. I’d wake up, rub my eyes, and realise the cruelty, and bliss, and the bitter-sweetness that lingered in the mouth along with the tang of morning breath. I’d go to work and write and have lunch and it’d float about at the corner of the mind, like a red kite in the azure sky.

And then the stupidity of everything caves in, and the tunnel is shut, and rationality resumes.

(Somehow I felt like I’ve written this before).

Anyhow, if the dreams remain the same, I suppose it’s a revisit I can’t avoid.

I just hope I can decide if they were good dreams, or bad ones.