u/Curious_Badger_1376

On and off i dream of hyper-real sensitivity. Usually i ignore them but past few weeks i've been dreaming a lot and this one i had last night is terrifying to me to my core. Though i understand most of it, but i still feel i need some guidence. Can someone skilled here please read it for me and guide me what to do about my fears and all? I'd be highly thankful.
It may look fake, a well thought dream but i am speaking genuinly I dream like this, hyper real and cinematic. I tried to write it:
I am in class five. The topper is before me and I am waiting for break or something so I could turn to him. For I’ve just realized the exams are two months ahead and I haven’t prepared for them in forever. I ask him to please tell me how’d I cover the syllabus in time. I show him my chemistry book—a subject I was worried about in a previous dream and a subject that belongs to class eight, not five. Besides math, I am still worried about chemistry the most. The topper turns back to me and tells me to take time off from the school after send-up exams and study from 10 am to 6 pm and then from 11 pm to 5 am. I look him in bewilderment, thinking how is that possible—even though I know it is possible. I think at least he will tell me which part I could skip so I save time but I don’t ask that. For suddenly I am not there anymore but sitting in the top bench of another class; the class is empty and besides mine there’s only one bag, belonging to another ordinary, casual classmate. The topper comes in, opens his bag and gives away a branded blue-and-red colored cap to a fellow student who wanted it; it appears the boy whose bag is being opened is okay for the topper to be about it and distributing his branded caps to others. He catches me seeing it and gives me one of those. I don’t realize until I hold it on my hands how secretly—not although madly, some benignly—I wanted it. I wear it and imagine myself showing up to my lover, which, again, I won’t be meeting in 12 years. Looking into my eye, the topper enters another class.

After school I’m on my way to home, on my bike, which, again, I won’t get for 12 years from the present timeline. The sun is unsparing, the day blaring hot. I push past a familiar place—a white-colored bookshop that has few books. I remember the slim door of a house beside it and recall the woman there too has books, specific ones and selling for cheap. I’ve driven a little far by now. So I park my bike there and walk back to the door. The young boy on the door—I assume him to be the woman’s son—tells me to go up and look for the books. I go up the stairs and see a shelf before me. It’s one of those where we put crockery and stuff, open without covers or windows, dusty and stuffed with objects along with books. I see a small pile of books at the bottom: it’s Anna Karenina’s image, the book I’ve already read. Somehow I think it to be other of Tolstoy’s works. The top shelf is all filled with black hardcover books with a minimal flower pattern on them. I recognize so many copies of Babel and a few Pride and prejudice. I wonder why this woman—why these poor people who don’t even know how to read English has such books. Maybe she knows, she’s a reader and now wants to sell her books, I try to make sense. The woman now comes; she turns over to her table and gives a book to a buyer I had not notice. She tells me to have my time finding the books I want. I look over and, just as the buyer is gone, I see the once-disarrayed black hardcovers are now lined in order. I pick Pride and prejudice, flipping to the opening chapter. It has strange text, not the expected opening line I mutter in my head. It feels like a summery, written in brackets within brackets. I think I’m in the wrong page and I make sure—no, yes I do—I am on the right page. On the top its written in big words: chapter one. The text is really strange.

Then my eyes fall onto an open room and I see a lot of light-green, D-shaped, handmade purses hanging down from the ceiling. It appears the woman gives them to her buyers as gifts. Suddenly I feel my hand in one of those and hold onto a plastic that feels like it has something rip-able—shiny, blade perhaps—in it. Then the husband of the woman comes in the house. The wife gives him roti and chapli Kabab that had been sizzling on a tawa in the open kitchen. I think it odd for me to stay this long, thinking her husband might be thinking ill of me. But the woman has no such expression of worry. There’s a calm on her face that’s plainly strange and indifferent toward me. It’s as if she has no problem how long I spend here, buy a book or not, as if to her I don’t exist at all, or she’s too occupied making dinner for her husband to care for anything else. Suddenly I feel an unputdownable need to sleep. And I fall asleep. I ask for it or not—I don’t know; I sleep standing or lying—I don’t know. All I know I wake up two hours later and feel a pang rising in my chest as I realize I’ve parked my bike in an awfully insecure place. It might have stolen—I might have missed putting on the wire-lock. Not possible, can’t lose my bike at any cost, runs through me. I rush out of her home, passing by her husband who’s entering. Both of us don’t look at the other or greet.

On my way to the bike the day is darkening, and I see a familiar family member—the wife of my cousin—strolling randomly from somewhere to somewhere, with a cup of tea in her hand. Taking a sip and strolling non-stop, she signals me to join the wedding at home. I get the impression it’s the wedding of my aunt’s girl. But she has boys only, how’s that possible? Anyhow it’s really her daughter being wed. Then in a flash I am there—on the street to the wedding house. I see my sister and my cousin—aunt’s son who liked and wanted to marry my sister but that did not happen—absorbed in talking. I go over to them and the cousin tells their son-in-law had been to our house. My sister says the son-in-law did not like it. I ask them with an odd look: our house? The cousin says no—the wiring of our house. He had told Papa to get done another one that doesn’t shoot earth from it. The cousin begins explaining which ones, but I suddenly catch a road leading to the main road where I had parked my bike and am now too worried to care. I dash off like a madman. Somehow I can’t make it to the road, always looping around and remembering the pull near where I had parked it. Its night and everything is properly dark now, no streetlight anywhere at all, and I am yet again on a stranger road. There, I see a yellow headlight of a bike flashing. I recognize it as mine. I rush to it and see two bikes and a man standing beside one of them; that bike appears to be his. I have an impression as if he’s looking after my bike so it doesn’t get stolen, waiting for the owner to come and get it. I edge to the person, only to see him kick off his bike and disappear in a beat, without noting me his way or concerning whether I am the owner or not. Relieved and exhausted, I sway a hand over my bike and notice through the black glint its seat has a weird shape, a pattern hard to put into words. As if bagels laden over bagels. I no longer recognize it as my bike but still linger over it, half-hoping it to be mine. Then, suddenly, a monkey who is not so giant but thick as a gorilla arises out of nowhere. His skin is gray-grayish-green, his eyes bloodshot and mouth open, slimy and loaded with sharp, razor-cut teeth like those of hungry dogs. He looks mad and vigorous, extremely scary. I take steps away. He clutches the bike on his mouth and dashes away with big steps taken in big zig-zag gaps.

Out of sudden I am back to the main road, walking against the path where I’ve a gut feeling the symmetry is clear to me and I’m on my way to my bike. I even almost see it—standing in the distance. Just as I had left it. But everything is not black now. Its slightly pink. For a moment it feels like time has reversed itself to bring me here, in the right road. But the thought appears to unreal to believe. I notice the road is all empty; I am alone and I find myself struggling to walk over to my bike. For the world does not feel ordinary anymore. It feels like an apocalypse or aftermath of something that’s destructed, now wrapped in a haze of blurry pink, through which the world feels to be another planet. Wind howls and furnaces, choking my eyes with dust and whatnot. The only two steps I manage to take feels like drawn to eternity. Against the unstoppable wind, I am helpless to lean over to the bench of the bus station. Still trying to open my eyes and look for my bike, clear and unmistakable, I continue hearing in my head the call to return to the wedding.

On and off i dream of hyper-real sensitivity. Usually i ignore them but past few weeks i've been dreaming a lot and this one i had last night is terrifying to me to my core. Though i understand most of it, but i still feel i need some guidence. Can someone skilled here please read it for me and guide me what to do about my fears and all? I'd be highly thankful.
It may look fake, a well thought dream but i am speaking genuinly I dream like this, hyper real and cinematic. I tried to write it:
I am in class five. The topper is before me and I am waiting for break or something so I could turn to him. For I’ve just realized the exams are two months ahead and I haven’t prepared for them in forever. I ask him to please tell me how’d I cover the syllabus in time. I show him my chemistry book—a subject I was worried about in a previous dream and a subject that belongs to class eight, not five. Besides math, I am still worried about chemistry the most. The topper turns back to me and tells me to take time off from the school after send-up exams and study from 10 am to 6 pm and then from 11 pm to 5 am. I look him in bewilderment, thinking how is that possible—even though I know it is possible. I think at least he will tell me which part I could skip so I save time but I don’t ask that. For suddenly I am not there anymore but sitting in the top bench of another class; the class is empty and besides mine there’s only one bag, belonging to another ordinary, casual classmate. The topper comes in, opens his bag and gives away a branded blue-and-red colored cap to a fellow student who wanted it; it appears the boy whose bag is being opened is okay for the topper to be about it and distributing his branded caps to others. He catches me seeing it and gives me one of those. I don’t realize until I hold it on my hands how secretly—not although madly, some benignly—I wanted it. I wear it and imagine myself showing up to my lover, which, again, I won’t be meeting in 12 years. Looking into my eye, the topper enters another class.

After school I’m on my way to home, on my bike, which, again, I won’t get for 12 years from the present timeline. The sun is unsparing, the day blaring hot. I push past a familiar place—a white-colored bookshop that has few books. I remember the slim door of a house beside it and recall the woman there too has books, specific ones and selling for cheap. I’ve driven a little far by now. So I park my bike there and walk back to the door. The young boy on the door—I assume him to be the woman’s son—tells me to go up and look for the books. I go up the stairs and see a shelf before me. It’s one of those where we put crockery and stuff, open without covers or windows, dusty and stuffed with objects along with books. I see a small pile of books at the bottom: it’s Anna Karenina’s image, the book I’ve already read. Somehow I think it to be other of Tolstoy’s works. The top shelf is all filled with black hardcover books with a minimal flower pattern on them. I recognize so many copies of Babel and a few Pride and prejudice. I wonder why this woman—why these poor people who don’t even know how to read English has such books. Maybe she knows, she’s a reader and now wants to sell her books, I try to make sense. The woman now comes; she turns over to her table and gives a book to a buyer I had not notice. She tells me to have my time finding the books I want. I look over and, just as the buyer is gone, I see the once-disarrayed black hardcovers are now lined in order. I pick Pride and prejudice, flipping to the opening chapter. It has strange text, not the expected opening line I mutter in my head. It feels like a summery, written in brackets within brackets. I think I’m in the wrong page and I make sure—no, yes I do—I am on the right page. On the top its written in big words: chapter one. The text is really strange.

Then my eyes fall onto an open room and I see a lot of light-green, D-shaped, handmade purses hanging down from the ceiling. It appears the woman gives them to her buyers as gifts. Suddenly I feel my hand in one of those and hold onto a plastic that feels like it has something rip-able—shiny, blade perhaps—in it. Then the husband of the woman comes in the house. The wife gives him roti and chapli Kabab that had been sizzling on a tawa in the open kitchen. I think it odd for me to stay this long, thinking her husband might be thinking ill of me. But the woman has no such expression of worry. There’s a calm on her face that’s plainly strange and indifferent toward me. It’s as if she has no problem how long I spend here, buy a book or not, as if to her I don’t exist at all, or she’s too occupied making dinner for her husband to care for anything else. Suddenly I feel an unputdownable need to sleep. And I fall asleep. I ask for it or not—I don’t know; I sleep standing or lying—I don’t know. All I know I wake up two hours later and feel a pang rising in my chest as I realize I’ve parked my bike in an awfully insecure place. It might have stolen—I might have missed putting on the wire-lock. Not possible, can’t lose my bike at any cost, runs through me. I rush out of her home, passing by her husband who’s entering. Both of us don’t look at the other or greet.

On my way to the bike the day is darkening, and I see a familiar family member—the wife of my cousin—strolling randomly from somewhere to somewhere, with a cup of tea in her hand. Taking a sip and strolling non-stop, she signals me to join the wedding at home. I get the impression it’s the wedding of my aunt’s girl. But she has boys only, how’s that possible? Anyhow it’s really her daughter being wed. Then in a flash I am there—on the street to the wedding house. I see my sister and my cousin—aunt’s son who liked and wanted to marry my sister but that did not happen—absorbed in talking. I go over to them and the cousin tells their son-in-law had been to our house. My sister says the son-in-law did not like it. I ask them with an odd look: our house? The cousin says no—the wiring of our house. He had told Papa to get done another one that doesn’t shoot earth from it. The cousin begins explaining which ones, but I suddenly catch a road leading to the main road where I had parked my bike and am now too worried to care. I dash off like a madman. Somehow I can’t make it to the road, always looping around and remembering the pull near where I had parked it. Its night and everything is properly dark now, no streetlight anywhere at all, and I am yet again on a stranger road. There, I see a yellow headlight of a bike flashing. I recognize it as mine. I rush to it and see two bikes and a man standing beside one of them; that bike appears to be his. I have an impression as if he’s looking after my bike so it doesn’t get stolen, waiting for the owner to come and get it. I edge to the person, only to see him kick off his bike and disappear in a beat, without noting me his way or concerning whether I am the owner or not. Relieved and exhausted, I sway a hand over my bike and notice through the black glint its seat has a weird shape, a pattern hard to put into words. As if bagels laden over bagels. I no longer recognize it as my bike but still linger over it, half-hoping it to be mine. Then, suddenly, a monkey who is not so giant but thick as a gorilla arises out of nowhere. His skin is gray-grayish-green, his eyes bloodshot and mouth open, slimy and loaded with sharp, razor-cut teeth like those of hungry dogs. He looks mad and vigorous, extremely scary. I take steps away. He clutches the bike on his mouth and dashes away with big steps taken in big zig-zag gaps.

Out of sudden I am back to the main road, walking against the path where I’ve a gut feeling the symmetry is clear to me and I’m on my way to my bike. I even almost see it—standing in the distance. Just as I had left it. But everything is not black now. Its slightly pink. For a moment it feels like time has reversed itself to bring me here, in the right road. But the thought appears to unreal to believe. I notice the road is all empty; I am alone and I find myself struggling to walk over to my bike. For the world does not feel ordinary anymore. It feels like an apocalypse or aftermath of something that’s destructed, now wrapped in a haze of blurry pink, through which the world feels to be another planet. Wind howls and furnaces, choking my eyes with dust and whatnot. The only two steps I manage to take feels like drawn to eternity. Against the unstoppable wind, I am helpless to lean over to the bench of the bus station. Still trying to open my eyes and look for my bike, clear and unmistakable, I continue hearing in my head the call to return to the wedding.

I feel like this family has a lott to unpack and its filled with wierd, tricomic, slightly magical-realism elements that reflect their inner lives. The idea had been sitting with me for too long and i finally wrote a snippet. What do you think? Its good enough to begin with? Would you keep reading? Even if its just for the vibe? , please do tell, ty.

https://preview.redd.it/c89ptvjpiwzg1.png?width=995&format=png&auto=webp&s=b88c2b684c74e0425f00686a160528411a552282

For me, it was Stoner. This particular moment:
“He had come to that moment in his age when there occurred to him, with increasing intensity, a question of such overwhelming simplicity that he had no means to face it. He found himself wondering if his life were worth the living; if it had ever been. It was a question, he suspected, that came to all men at one time or another; he wondered if it came to them with such impersonal force as it came to him. The question brought with it a sadness, but it was a general sadness which (he thought) had little to do with himself or with his particular fate; he was not even sure that the question sprang from the most immediate and obvious causes, from what his own life had become. It came, he believed, from the accretion of his years, from the density of accident and circumstance, and from what he had come to understand of them. He took a grim and ironic pleasure from the possibility that what little learning he had managed to acquire had led him to this knowledge: that in the long run all things, even the learning that let him know this, were futile and empty, and at last diminished into a nothingness they did not alter.”

Last few chapters were heavy and dramatic so here the pace is some slow and breathy. Please critique it, whatever you get to say. Thanks.

https://preview.redd.it/zh0a36lr5qyg1.png?width=958&format=png&auto=webp&s=b32a3ba04b6c654861868c81630f07300f5d4729

https://preview.redd.it/wtunplxt5qyg1.png?width=917&format=png&auto=webp&s=f1609f5d2f52c97ec13a96f7afaeaaeac804487b