The Dreamer

this story is inspired by life itself. i have here tried to incorporate thoughts and feelings as the ways of storytelling, more like stream of consciousness

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1. I.

Awake and nonchalant, pushing the cold morning air away with the huge span of its hands- no wait, what is it really? A hand? Its volume is great to be compared to something small as the hands. Then a leg perhaps? Nah, leg just doesn’t sound fitting. A beam? A column? A cloak? Why on earth a cloak? I don’t know, I am only suggesting. Maybe because or sweeps the ground and everything it touches like a cloak. Rather call it a broom than a cloak if it sweeps, which it is not. No, I’d go with something abstract. Like the unintelligible splash of paint on the book lying open on my table. Or perhaps like one of those many concrete designs in black and white with thousands of lines crossing one another that are displayed on my browser when I search for an abstract design on the internet. No shape, no size. Only feeling. No touch, and yet a feeling. The warmth as it caresses your skin, sweeping (?) away your sleep. Invisible spikes too which I can feel pricking my face and dragging along my cheeks, my hands and every part not underneath the warmer embrace of my blanket- an invader, a terrorist urges me to wake up, to let go of what I am to at the present moment. A dream- so real that it is, the morning, the sun feel like an enemy.

Or  maybe the real dream is actually what’s outside my head, my bed, in my so-called reality. Dear lord, for the sake of prestige and goodwill, the little colored flowers in a gigantic bouquet sprayed with perfume, a welcoming gesture, a feeling of belonging, do we pretend- could be long as well depending on the scenarios- to escape the soft touches of dreams and show that it is really the phony, cocky world, filled with pot-headed humans busy talking to themselves about themselves on themselves for as long as others can recall, that we choose for ourselves. Such a wonderful show, I should say for I belong to the same reality. The very same concrete jungle of concrete people with concrete hearts- molten tar in our veins, our concrete brains collude to overthrow the beauty of living while never realizing the heinous plot of betrayal the other concrete person has concocted in his concrete brain to overthrow us. This world is concrete for us. Dead. Without a pulse. No breath. A giant mass of concrete condo our world is, sticking out of the ground- is the ground dead already? Oh, please don’t be. Breathe. Live-, rising higher and higher until we no longer can see its head. Only our dreams are not concrete. Why? Because they don’t exist, that’s why.

Dreams are abstract. No touch. No concrete. Like the rays of the sun intruding my bedroom. Who knows, those rays might be concrete already, for everything that exists in our world is soon made concrete by our concrete brains, and cannot be unmade. The concrete rays of the sun, imagine. Prickly they are already. Could that mean...

Why is it suddenly so bright? What is the time? 8:00? 7:30? Is that why no one has come to wake me up? My parents are notorious for being indifferent when I don’t leave my bed on time. Perhaps it is already too late. All I can hear is my brother next room sending out heavy, asleep carbon dioxide in to the air. Oh sure, he is still sleeping. No one ever wakes him up. His story, however, is different than mine. It is not indifference he will have to gulp down with his milk in the morning for waking up late as me. I don’t know what it is, but I’d like that too. He is the youngest, you see. And the youngest always get to sleep as long as they want to. Let him live in his abstract world a little longer. Let him not worry about concretes a little longer. Sleep, sweet babe. Dream. The storm is violent around. Thunder and rain and whirling hurricanes- bed is warmer, dreams more welcoming. Sleep is safe.

Perhaps it is already too late for me to  be cuddling up in my blanket, smiling, eyes closed, holding a Oscar in my hands, waving at the crowd hungry for my wave, my wink, my kiss, for the sixth time, making myself the actor with the most competitive Best Actor wins. Ah golden dreams. Next time, it will be the Booker. Heard that the Man Booker is going international next year onwards- or is it this year? Whichever way, I am now eligible to win it. Ever. Ah bookie dreams. And me, a dreamer.

I push away the quilt and bathe in the all-inclusive shower of the sun-daggers (Well, I never got a chance to have my say about the cold air, and now I get it for free with the warm yet prickly daggers), in the span of its- whatever- before collecting myself and standing up. On my way to the bathroom, I continue to hear the heavy, asleep exhalation of carbon dioxide from my brother’s room. Such adorable times. Only that I don’t recall being in them.

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