The second I discover a piece of writing is set in a dream I completely discount it as worthless gobbledygook, even if the story that it is set in is a work of fiction. What you are about to read is not fiction at all, it really did happen to me, it's just I was asleep at the time.
I was walking besides a dusty railway track, not much else in site, I knew I was dreaming and that bored me. I stumbled upon a heavy hardback book, the cover was black but had no title or author indeed nothing that indicated what this book might be about. It was locked with a inconsequential gold padlock just like a young girls diary might be, with one forceful twist I gained entry. The pages were empty but having beaten the decorative lock the book seemed fit to bestow its secrets upon me. The knowledge of why dreams exist.
There are plenty of scientific explanations for what dreams are but a clear explanation of why seemed before this revelation to be lacking. Imagine if nobody ever had dreams, how strange it would be if one person did, how much stranger still if after years of a population unbeknownst of the experience of dreaming the entire world all began to dream at once. When taken for granted the mystery of why we dream seems to be ignored.
Now I knew. Dreams exist to confuse, to shift our attention from our immediate surroundings, to further overwhelming over communication. To ignite our imaginations that we may tell stories, create myths and legends and monsters and lies and fear when we wake up.
There and then I ceased creating any narrative any connections out of the images flashing on my retinas. Seeing hundreds of meaningless images come and go, hundreds every second.
An autumnal tree.
A camels gurning face.
Rows and rows of grey shelves in a library, filled with thousands of books.
Three pears on a plate.
A young woman in a hat sat on a park bench.
A dramatic cliff face jutting down into a turbulent grey sea.
My uncle.
A small white dog barking aggressively.
A child blowing out candles at a birthday party.
A steep grassy hill.
Then a man with a grotty strawberry blonde beard appeared and lingered for a while, staring blankly at me with cold eyes – the pupils a misty grey.
I knew he was a wandering soul sent to me from limbo by the guardian of the secret, here to make me forget what I had learned.
I repeated to myself “Don’t let the nonsense distract you from the significant.”...
...“Don’t let the nonsense distract you from the significant.”...
...“Don’t let the nonsense distract you from the significant.”
Eventually the spectral figure stood listlessly in front spoke “You don’t really believe I was sent here do you. You must know that you created me yourself. I was born of your imagination, an imagination that cannot be stifled. It is laughable; your need for some sense of purpose. You seek greater purpose in anything and everything, just give it a rest.”
Rest,
rest,
rest. Ahhh! Yes I was just resting, I yawn, ooohh I only shut my eyes for a moment and must have drifted off. I am sat on my brown faux leather sofa fully clothed. I remember having a stomach churning dream of long straight black hairs sprouting out of my ripe burgundy bell-end. My penis a nasty witches broom dangling between my legs like a suicide excuse.
I cautiously slip a hand past the drawstrings of my comfortable jogging bottoms.
It couldn’t be real, could it?
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