REALITY BY VISHAKA MANTRI
COPY WRITER AND ILLUSTRATOR: VISHAKA MANTRI Special Thanks to Nanci Takayema and Adobe InDesign Cover Art and Printed by: Vishaka Mantri
Published by the School of Art Design and Media, Nanyang Technological University. ÂŠ The Authors and Artists, 2013 No copy of this book may be reproduced, copied or distributed without the consent of the authors and artists. ISSN 7974560420
REALITY BY VISHAKA MANTRI
A Metaphoric Journey through the life and dreams of a girl
For she opened her eyes, There was sweat on her forehead, A scream in her head This was real, that was not What is real and what is not? The question never ends, Her slumber is twisted in bends.
The visions may be fantastic They may be awe-inspiringly wonderful, But her conformity took this heresy as unforgivable. When the eyes opened, the images stood there still It would be an hour before she would be left to her will It felt so real she wanted to jump Hit her head on a rock and feel something, anything with that bump.
Moving under the covers, finding the sharp edge With a small repeated movement, the world made real again, The warm wet droplets gliding from her vein, If the pain was real then so was her sorry existence. These â€˜mares were messing with her, where was her resistance? Why must it be so vivid, why must it be fantastic too When it was over, there was only pain, the pain was irrational too.
The pain made her drift back into the Narnia of â€˜mares They were her constant companion for there was no one else there She smiled her smile with no pants on, Why was this familiar and strong. Out came a hat, it climbed a ladder and jumped into the stove It was suddenly hot, burning even this cornucope. A fetus jumping around with its umbilical chord A clown guarded staircase was in disaccord. There were tentacles holding her, A pirate ship was sunk deep inside What was this a figment of her mind? There were eyes watching her everywhere There was the paranoia in the air She was alone she was perplexed Why was this vision feeling so real in her head? What body inhabbited this soul, and why was it here? Who was she, why was she here?
And then it shifted to a snake, A fanged cobra slithering in its gait; What was this, was it her fate, She figured not, it was just another date with fate. She felt this pain between her thighs, Turns out the snake had constricted their life. She screamed again at the familiarity, calmed down and opened them eyes to reality.
It changed and something fought back, Was it her psyche or her abused body that found courage at last There were arrows trailing down the road, She was hunted, made hollow from the out-pour There was no soul, no pitiable point, Here she was broken and disjoined. There was the snake under her hands, Maybe it was control that was returned to her grand plan. There was something hiding behind the covers though, A dream, a vision, an uncoloured contour, She could hear the mechanistic ring of his arrival, Her tormentor, her annoying nightmarish rival. This time she wouldnâ€™t budge, she would stand there and say no, This time would be different would it not? Who was she kidding; she had learned to be helpless now, There was no point, no life left around anyhow.
He showed up with his ugly face, his twin identity His secret sin, blazing in heat on one side of his head. There were small gears and machines making his mind heat and burn, They worked relentlessly to make his evil highness churn. He had devil eyes, that scarred his face, His sins were scarring another face. She felt helpless, she felt weak, There was no point she was so meek.
Finally he stepped out of the shadows, His two-face mechanism in all its glory, She was there timid and in sorrow, He didn’t care, she was the meat and he was hungry. He ate her inside and out, left her in agony but with no sound, She was the silent spectator to the event, She was the victim, he was the master, She was quiet as he basked in his sadistic pleasure. No one said a word, they were all spectators, The machines, the gears were whirring away their motors. He was done and dusted now, she was sore and violated now, She had no more pain to feel, she saw herself from outside what was real, She wasn’t herself anymore, she wasn’t anybody any more, She too was a spectator, a spectator to her fantastic metaphoric dream every night, It was in her dreams that she was raped again every night.
One day she thinks the pain will stop, When the voices and the â€˜mares will stop. One day she wonâ€™t see, herself being abused repeatedly, What about the hats, ladders, stairs, fetusâ€™, tentacles, eyes And all the other images she sees? What of the pain and angst that she finds her life to be? When will she manage to release it all, The day she decides to overcome the storm. That day, all of it shall manifest and on that day All her emotions would be surreal and fantastic In a painting, just like Salvador Dali.