Dream
Part 1:
I knew now that I was following him.
My bare feet padded across the hot cement, as waves of heat rose up in front of me, distorting the figure I pursued. I let the crowd of people surrounding me, swallow me up. It was the most I could have hoped for, a mass of commuters acting as an invisibility cloak walking briskly in my direction. The school bell still rung in my ears as I paced along, squinting in the unnaturally bright light. The man I crept behind was Mr. Curt Douglas, my old creative writing teacher. As soon as school had ended he headed straight on his way home, only pausing to mumble an almost inaudible complaint about misplacing his car. I was the only one that heard him. His voice made no sound, only his lips moved halfheartedly.
At first I had stepped in line behind him with the intent of heading home myself, but somehow I couldn’t break away, my eyes cautiously fixed on his back. I managed to duck out of sight every time his suspicions led him to twist back and snatch a look behind him.
I stayed well away from Mr. Douglas, giving him as much space as possible while still keeping him in sight. He walked fast, stepping wide. Blocks and blocks stretched out behind us, and a painful glare from the sun threw the shadows far in front of me. I never once took my eyes from the familiar form, and yet I knew everything that was going on. I was buzzingly aware of everything around me, the faces that casually glanced at a wrist watch, the eerie willow trees that lined the broad walkway, blowing in the breeze that didn’t find it’s way to me, the complete lack of sound, the way the light from the sun seemed to pulsate, easing back and forth between an intense, brilliant light that washed out everything, to a more subdued glow that exaggerated every detail of Mr. Douglas’s starched button-up shirt.
Suddenly, three things happened in quick succession. First, no longer was it soundless. The drone of cicadas and the pounding of footsteps almost knocked me off balance as the quiet transformed itself into a deafening disharmony. Second, my eyes flashed to something I hadn’t noticed before. Something under Mr. Douglas’s arm fervently began to glint as if it wished to betray its whereabouts. At every angle it sparkled unceasingly, refracting the throbbing rays of the sun. And third, I realized Mr. Douglas knew I was there. As I had stared, captivated by Mr. Douglas’s poorly concealed object, I didn’t notice that he had turned to look behind him. When I next looked up, his gaze caught my eye.
Part 2:
I froze. The sea of people parted around me, unfazed, continuing on their way. But Mr. Douglas wasn’t upset. He just gave me a sheepish grin, one corner of his mouth tugging up, as though he had been the one that was found out. Mr. Douglas turned around and kept walking. I followed.
We arrived at an out of place flat building, surrounded by high, chain linked fence that enclosed a cement courtyard. It was all by itself, looking very lonely and broken with no one and nothing around it. At this point, the crowd left us, shooting off in every direction, except where we were. We were left alone. Mr. Douglas gave me one last look and slipped between gates that led to the courtyard.
I paused in the shade of a large oak tree, not daring to follow here. This was a prison. Thought there were no other prisoners, except Mr. Douglas it seemed. I saw him pacing behind the fence, taking out his flashy object. I could see it now, and it appeared to be a journal made entirely of mirrors. Mr. Douglas began to write in it, still pacing. I could hear his thoughts inside my head, though I could hardly make sense of them because they were so jumbled.
It sounded as if he had been chosen to live here, a prisoner until he finished his cause. He called himself a dreamer, which is why he had been chosen for this task. He was supposed to be evaluating the current nature of dreams. As things are now, dreams are snippets taken from life, and put back together later in sleep, mixed in with unconscious thoughts and desires, seemingly random aspects of the world. But Mr. Douglas was debating with himself whether he should change this order. His ideas were to make the dream world a trial period, completely lucid, with every person able to control the story playing in their heads. It would be a dream replica of the real world, only as you slept. In this way people could try out actions in the dream world so that they could see what would happen. Then, depending on what they found, they could make better choices in life. But Mr. Douglas was conflicted. He was worried that people would over use this ability, and that life might lose its finality and importance. He could barely function in life and at work because these questions plagued him at all hours of the day. He just couldn’t decide. Life might be so much better if we could practice it, but maybe life isn’t supposed to be tested.
I knew now that I was following him.
My bare feet padded across the hot cement, as waves of heat rose up in front of me, distorting the figure I pursued. I let the crowd of people surrounding me, swallow me up. It was the most I could have hoped for, a mass of commuters acting as an invisibility cloak walking briskly in my direction. The school bell still rung in my ears as I paced along, squinting in the unnaturally bright light. The man I crept behind was Mr. Curt Douglas, my old creative writing teacher. As soon as school had ended he headed straight on his way home, only pausing to mumble an almost inaudible complaint about misplacing his car. I was the only one that heard him. His voice made no sound, only his lips moved halfheartedly.
At first I had stepped in line behind him with the intent of heading home myself, but somehow I couldn’t break away, my eyes cautiously fixed on his back. I managed to duck out of sight every time his suspicions led him to twist back and snatch a look behind him.
I stayed well away from Mr. Douglas, giving him as much space as possible while still keeping him in sight. He walked fast, stepping wide. Blocks and blocks stretched out behind us, and a painful glare from the sun threw the shadows far in front of me. I never once took my eyes from the familiar form, and yet I knew everything that was going on. I was buzzingly aware of everything around me, the faces that casually glanced at a wrist watch, the eerie willow trees that lined the broad walkway, blowing in the breeze that didn’t find it’s way to me, the complete lack of sound, the way the light from the sun seemed to pulsate, easing back and forth between an intense, brilliant light that washed out everything, to a more subdued glow that exaggerated every detail of Mr. Douglas’s starched button-up shirt.
Suddenly, three things happened in quick succession. First, no longer was it soundless. The drone of cicadas and the pounding of footsteps almost knocked me off balance as the quiet transformed itself into a deafening disharmony. Second, my eyes flashed to something I hadn’t noticed before. Something under Mr. Douglas’s arm fervently began to glint as if it wished to betray its whereabouts. At every angle it sparkled unceasingly, refracting the throbbing rays of the sun. And third, I realized Mr. Douglas knew I was there. As I had stared, captivated by Mr. Douglas’s poorly concealed object, I didn’t notice that he had turned to look behind him. When I next looked up, his gaze caught my eye.
Part 2:
I froze. The sea of people parted around me, unfazed, continuing on their way. But Mr. Douglas wasn’t upset. He just gave me a sheepish grin, one corner of his mouth tugging up, as though he had been the one that was found out. Mr. Douglas turned around and kept walking. I followed.
We arrived at an out of place flat building, surrounded by high, chain linked fence that enclosed a cement courtyard. It was all by itself, looking very lonely and broken with no one and nothing around it. At this point, the crowd left us, shooting off in every direction, except where we were. We were left alone. Mr. Douglas gave me one last look and slipped between gates that led to the courtyard.
I paused in the shade of a large oak tree, not daring to follow here. This was a prison. Thought there were no other prisoners, except Mr. Douglas it seemed. I saw him pacing behind the fence, taking out his flashy object. I could see it now, and it appeared to be a journal made entirely of mirrors. Mr. Douglas began to write in it, still pacing. I could hear his thoughts inside my head, though I could hardly make sense of them because they were so jumbled.
It sounded as if he had been chosen to live here, a prisoner until he finished his cause. He called himself a dreamer, which is why he had been chosen for this task. He was supposed to be evaluating the current nature of dreams. As things are now, dreams are snippets taken from life, and put back together later in sleep, mixed in with unconscious thoughts and desires, seemingly random aspects of the world. But Mr. Douglas was debating with himself whether he should change this order. His ideas were to make the dream world a trial period, completely lucid, with every person able to control the story playing in their heads. It would be a dream replica of the real world, only as you slept. In this way people could try out actions in the dream world so that they could see what would happen. Then, depending on what they found, they could make better choices in life. But Mr. Douglas was conflicted. He was worried that people would over use this ability, and that life might lose its finality and importance. He could barely function in life and at work because these questions plagued him at all hours of the day. He just couldn’t decide. Life might be so much better if we could practice it, but maybe life isn’t supposed to be tested.
posted by Integrity at 12:10 AM
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