Memento Mori of the Dreamscape

Gaazal Dhungana

Speculative Poetry from the Iridescence anthology

Breathe in… breathe out… 

I have to consciously and desperately remind myself 

as I lay lifeless and listless on my own bed.

The crushing weight of a translucent bear lies on my chest, 

both suffocating and flimsy,

invisible and illusionary… non-existent, truth be told—

but clawing at me nevertheless. 

Breathe in… breathe out… 

A girl has been struck ruthlessly by a car. 

The girl is me—in this astral liminal space, at least.

A boy is snorting stardust off of a cheaply upholstered sofa. 

The boy is… also me? 

One after the other, 

the desolate reel of incidents and happenings unfold. 

Breathe in… breathe out… 

A sweet child holds my hand, 

and there twinkles a wonder within his eyes—

the type that flickers and burns like twin flames, 

The type that is extinguished all too soon. 

We converse and play. 

I learn a lot about his life. 

He has a baby sister, newborn and aglow.

He’s just won a certificate for neat work, he says.

He’s scared of the dark, but doesn’t usually like telling people that. 

I’ve never met him, yet I know him. 

But before I can even wave my farewell, 

I’m whisked off into another dreamland. 

A living room. 

One with a strange, ephemeral quality. 

It’s like when you sometimes get soap in your eyes. 

Your surroundings are still the same, but 

nothing looks quite substantial,

and your perspective has changed. 

With a jolt, I realise it’s my living room. 

Only devoid of all furniture, 

Save for the small, mahogany rocking chair: 

a family heirloom. 

I stare closer

at the fraying black and white photo, 

the only phantasmal relic to now adorn the walls,

I feel a flutter at my elbow and 

smell the distinct waft of cumin and turmeric. 

My great-grandmother is no longer 

eternally bound to the gossamer-like square of film, 

but standing right by me and beaming. 

She’s shorter than I expected. And dead. 

Her impossibly small hand reaches up to mine, 

mosaiced with turquoise and mint veins: 

very clearly visible through her paper-thin skin. 

“Now, you listen here, young lady,” she says—

in a voice that feigns chastising but reverberates with love.

“I know how much these modern folk

like to change around their homes and their architecture,

but you’re not to touch this place, okay? 

My father and his brothers built it 

from the ground up with their bare hands.” 

Her words carry such weight to them, 

such a level of gravity as though lined with gold.

Booming and authoritative, yet kind and paternalistic— 

surprising for such a small frame. 

I find myself nodding; 

she carries the air of someone you want to listen to. 

As I am about to ask more about my patronage, 

the ground begins to rumble. 

“Routine earthquake,” she gleams, “and a weak one at that. 

Just make sure to cover your head!”

I cover my head. 

Because when your Asian great-grandmother tells you 

to cover your head—

even from the cosmic beyond —

you damn well cover your head. 

That is, until the entire light fixture crashes above your skull, 

fracturing into a million, iridescent pieces. 

Each one reflecting the stupidity of your dazed face…

I raise my still-pulsating head in a creaking motion. 

There’s a young man sitting across from me,

and it smells of coffee. 

“Is everything okay?” His eyebrows furrow in concern. 

He has a kind face. 

A handsome face. 

“Oh yes,” I lie. 

“Maybe just a bit dizzy looking at you,” I venture. 

He smiles. 

A brilliant, white smile. 

I smile too. 

After that—

it’s like the rose-tinted soap has enveloped my eyes once more, 

creating feelings of joy and elation, 

like a warm light that steadily grows and grows within my chest. 

Perhaps enough to engulf me entirely. 

…

I hear his gunshot before I feel it. 

The blood trickles down my back like poisoned molasses—

shining like impish constellations.

What a coward, I think, as I suck in my final gulp of air and—

huff it out again. 

Drenched in my own sweat in my own bed. 

Silly me. I forgot to breathe.

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Gaazal Dhungana is a law student at King’s College London and a part-time tutor. Her poetry explores themes of humor, nostalgia, and mortality, often drawing inspiration from her lived experiences. An avid reader of fiction across all genres, Gaazal also enjoys creating henna art and expressing her cultural identity through creative writing. In 2024, she served as a youth panellist for a groundbreaking exhibition at the Wellcome Collection in Central London, which focused on decolonising global trade and history. Through her work, Gaazal hopes readers gain fresh perspectives and connect with ideas in unexpected ways.