I had a nightmare last night.

The term 'nightmare' is quite a misnomer -- it can happen any hour of the day, morning or early afternoon, in between lessons in the creak of gears in your teacher's voice, or hiding under the hoarse throat of the overhead fan as morn turns to noon. Or it could be sneaking under the intangible static under the clouds, that magical moment where night ceases and day begins.

For my nightmare to occur precisely between the time of 0715 to 1345, it pretty much proves that the nightmare in question is of another league. The contents of the nightmare itself, having occurred during normal operational hours of non-lazy humans (i.e. anyone who is not a slob a.k.a.
me, slob extraordinaire) has made it more real than the mumblings of sweat-filled sheets in the dark. Real enough to occur in life itself.

I would say I was never so relieved to wake up, but that would be a lie because I had once dreamt of dying when I was seven and when I woke up I held my breath for as long as I could so I can feel the burn in my lungs and tell myself that I am alive, and not dead but alive in some weird alternate dimension. Besides, dying in sleep has got to be one of the most pathetic, though least painful deaths ever. If I die I hope to be drowned under a sky pouring down torrents of money, (preferably of whatever currency that's the strongest at the moment) or hot gold or chocolate. But I figure I wouldn't be very happy dying that way because for the thing you like to be the cause of your death is probably going to be very traumatic, and I'm going to die with a newly-minted trauma, which is so...I'm rambling again aren't I?

Anyway, let's move on to the contents of the nightmare, shall we?

In my dream those people who had scored extremely well for O-levels had the honour of receiving their results early and having their names announced to the general assembly. The setting was largely informal, but everyone was (oddly enough), attired in p.e. uniforms. I was glancing down my class when the principal, newly bald, went up the cardboard stage that had been set up for this very occasion, it seemed. I remember the setting was moving, like a mirage, sometimes beaming the image of the polluted cchms lake, sometimes of another town square in a foreign land. Anyway, he skipped the speech and went straight into announcing who did well.

I didn't recognise any of the names, or the faces that lit up with joy, but I was still waiting in expectation when the final name was read out to a volley of cheers before all went silent. Then I heard the talking.

"Where're the RP people?"
"No-one from MD or LY was called out..."
"Funny, they did well in prelims didn't they..."

I was swept along in the general confusion when the vice-principal ascended the stage and spoke (in surprisingly good English).

"I know you might be surprised that your favourite candidates' names were not announced. However, contrary to speculation, RP did not do very well. I would once again like to remind you that with hard work, you can displace anyone. Congratulations to candidates who have done well."

Somehow time had fast-forwarded to the day of results collection, and I glanced down at the results slip in my hand...and was shocked at the number of B's I had. Seven.

Then I started panicking, and I woke up in sweat.

Whoever coined the phrase 'woke up in cold sweat' was obviously lying because I was sweating profusely and it was goddamn hot though both the fan and air-con was on, and sometime in my
sleep I had kicked off my blankets.

When I woke up, it was 1400 exactly. My mind was clear, which is a pretty strange phenomenon in itself because normally I would have the brain capacity of an ostrich on cocaine when freshly awoken. I had the misfortune to mentally recap the papers and how badly I did and was almost convinced I was going to do very badly for every paper. Like get a B for English and English Literature, a B for Chemistry and Physics.

Somehow, in writing it down, the nightmare feels more real. I'm honestly terrified. Most of my dreams are quite prophetic, with some coming true in a weird, uncanny way. Like me visiting places I've never gone to and then visiting reality's replica of that place a few years down the road. Or seeing repeats of situations I find in dreams.

Thankfully, so far, all my nightmares of the apocalypse coming in form of trolls and combusting suns haven't come true yet. I'm pretty sure that trolls don't exist. However, considering the number of times I've dreamt of being trapped in an elevator, getting lost in a mall, traversing an unfamiliar road looking for something, I think something bad is going to happen, and soon. These dreams are more likely to happen in real life, but I'm hoping that I won't get trapped in an elevator. The suffocation and claustaphobia and the sudden drop of the elevator when the cables are severed is no fun.

Now you, my friends, know why I 1) really loathe thrill rides and 2) Refuse to enter an elevator on my own.

I hope the other shoe won't drop on my O-level results.

You know, this waiting and anticipation is a form of torture. I remember reading an article last year about an experiment proved that the wait itself is actually more terrifying than the pain.

The experiment went like this: a few victims were chosen. They had the choice to choose between getting an electric shock at any time, or getting a shock at a higher voltage, only that this time they know when it's coming.

Most people (can't remember the exact percentage) chose getting a shock at a higher voltage.

The experiment showed that it is not pain itself that we fear, but the unknown. The wait for an unknown pain. The constant fear and worry and trepedition. On a sidenote, that's how battles are won: keeping the enemy in a constant state of worry and stress. Psychological breakdown.

This is exactly what's happening to me. I am the person sitting in a comfortable armchair with one arm coiled with wires, waiting for the shock. I do not know when it will come, how many seconds exactly to wait. I have to constantly brace myself aginst the shock, and be reluctant to relax because of the fear that the electric shock will come when I'm all self-assured and confident I am safe.

I know I won't fail. I can't fail. No one is stupid enough to fail O-levels.

I'm afraid I can't live up to be what I think I was. My own expectations. My friends'. My family's. Afraid of the string of B's. When I examine it from every angle I am pretty sure of the B, even though my heart if telling me it can't be that bad.

I don't know. Ultimately, hope is a good thing, enabling us to push through and live another day. Giving us a reason to live.

Hope also destroys the perfectly-laid foundations for the walls you've hidden behind to protect yourself from yourself and your ambition.

A while ago, in the thick of exams I was lamenting that there wasn't enough time. Enough time to study, enough time to really memorise and get everything crystal clear like how I envisioned taking my exams in a blaze of knowledge and poise when I was in Secondary One, disappointed with my PSLE aggregate but determined to prove myself once more.

Now, I'm afraid, there's too much time. Too much time for regrets and calculations and artifices where I could've done something better or chosen this option. Too much time before I am proven delightfully wrong in my assumptions that I would do badly or graviously right. Too much time to speculate and open old wounds.

I have my options now. I have to prepare a safety net. A list of colleges that will accept a failure. Or just damn everything to hell and live in the moment before I get bogged down by responsibilities.

Looking back on my post, I realise that seven is a recurring number. Seven is a number of magic, from what I can remember, along with thirteen. Or was it three? No, three is a holy number. 4 is, unaminously, a number of forboding.

Here's to hoping that the recurring sevens in my life spell out a blessing.