Originally posted 17/3/2016
Title suggestion: “The Wake-Up Cry”
I woke up from a dream this morning crying—loudly enough to wake my daughter. She came to comfort me, wondering what was going on. The dream was a continuation of our recent disagreement, which had left a rift between us. I had said some harsh words—something about who the father is and who the daughter is, the usual power-play lines when tensions boil over.
After struggling to fall asleep, I finally drifted off. Almost immediately, I entered a vivid dream. My daughter and I were in some surreal landscape filled with crowds—young people at concerts and other gatherings I couldn’t quite describe. There was an energy in the air, unfamiliar yet familiar, like a blend of joy and chaos.
At one point, I was walking through a gateway when someone shoved me from behind. I turned to confront the person, only to be met with a massive fist aimed at my face. It belonged to a young Chinese man with the muscles of the Incredible Hulk. Calmly, I said, “I’m 67 years old, and you feel like hitting me?” The scene dissolved instantly.
I kept walking, searching for my daughter, whom I had somehow lost along the way. A young Indian man told me the would-be attacker had once been stabbed. I couldn’t find the meaning in his words.
I continued on into a quieter area, more open, less crowded. The landscape was foreign—nearly treeless and still. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by a deep, crushing loneliness. A melancholy melody filled the air, one my own mind was creating. I broke down completely, the sadness pulling tears from a place I hadn't touched in many years. I woke up crying, raw and vulnerable.
That morning, my body felt drained, every movement a challenge. But I resisted the inertia. I walked to a nearby coffee shop, bought some roti canai and nasi lemak, and gave them to the restaurant workers. Their smiles and thank-yous lifted me. I realized I had to push back against the weight of the dream.
So I carried on with my plans. I went to the Museum. I sat down to write this blog. I continued work on the Malay version of my autobiography. I don't fully know what my dream was trying to say, but I have a rough idea.
I’m getting old.
My fears over my two children have caught up to me at a deeper level. The loneliness of my years as a widower is no longer just background noise—it’s becoming part of my subconscious architecture. But I won't let it rule me. These dreams, these reflections, are reminders—not punishments. They tell me to observe, not react. To see more clearly, not to sink.
My mind has been working overtime, allowing too many concerns to dominate my thoughts. I’ve felt helpless. Defeated. But this dream, as painful as it was, felt like a wake-up call—a reminder to let go of what is beyond my control.
I must trust that life will unfold as it must, whether in my relationships with my children, my relatives, or friends. I have to embrace my own path, however solitary it may feel. The path I’ve chosen—my art, my writing, my seeking—it must be followed to the end, without veering.
This dream was another prompt to look deeper into the psyche, to observe how the mind reacts under emotional and physical stress. The answer is simple, and always waiting:
I have to sit.
I have to observe with Bare Attention.
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