Lucid
Dreams
Daniel
Yetman April 17 2014
P
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erhaps if the bricks weren’t
charred, if they weren’t flame-licked, nothing would seem amiss. The man stares
at the blackened hue before peeling his eyes away from the distraught scene. He
steps towards the heart of the massacre, where the fire burned brightest and
the eradication was epitomized. Once, a city stood in this spot, but now all
that remains is an inorganic skeleton, scrap metal, and people desperately
scrambling to recover their few surviving belongings. Or perhaps they are
looters, scavengers who feast of carrion and the misfortune of others.
How long has he
been gone? A year? Five years? A decade? He can’t remember. He is afflicted
with amnesia—the last moment he can recall is drifting asleep one night when he
was 21, dreaming of the fortune that life would surely bring him. He can
remember the gowns and tassels—black, with red and white trim—and the masses of
people with hopeful tears streaming down their faces. A feeling of unity allied
the hundreds of youth with a shared goal of stepping from their scholastic
haven into reality. He recalls the feeling of time accelerating and wishing he
had more photographs to capture the memories. And amidst the nostalgia, he too
shed a tear. He can remember a lingering kiss on his cheek, and the feeling of elation.
. . But even that moment has grown foggy.
Where has he
been all this time? He presses his fingertips into his forehead, in an attempt
to remedy his stupor. He can’t even remember the date, or why he has returned.
For all he knows, he’s not truly awake. He has never felt awake, rather, he has
wished his life away, skipping all the days that weren’t ceremonious. If he
were to write out the entirety of the life he can recollect, the screenplay
would be less than a page in length.
He can picture
himself sitting on the couch in the living room of his parents’ house when he
was two years old, only half awake, watching the hockey players on television
hoisting the Stanley Cup over their heads. He can picture his first day of
school when he was four, still in disbelief of how quickly his life had
changed. He has a vivid memory of losing his first tooth when he was seven, and
the feeling of giving and receiving his first punch in a schoolyard fight.
The man can
remember the face of his first crush and his first taste of rejection. He
remembers getting hit in the throat by a line drive during a baseball game when
he was twelve and coughing and choking over his own spit, sure that his
windpipe was about to close up. He has flickering memories of high-school, both
positive and negative. He remembers the taste of his first drink, not
particularly enjoying the feeling of dwindling intellect, and swearing he would
never drink again. He can’t remember if he kept that promise or not. And
lastly, he can picture shaking hands with a man he never met and being handed a
parchment, supposedly representing an achievement. But to him, it didn’t seem
like an accomplishment to graduate, but rather the logical progression of
events.
Now he has
returned, this time alone. He wanders through what was once a garden and sits
on a bench with a steel frame. He can still remember the flowers and the birds
that jumped from lily to iris in the summertime, singing joyous songs. Like
magic, to his amazement, the flowers re-bloom and the grass turns from black to
green. The flame-licked bricks of the surrounding buildings return to their
original color and even the bench he is sitting on becomes refurbished. Ghosts
carrying textbooks begin to walk by sluggishly, and several of the phantom figures
even sit down across from the man. A young couple unfold a blanket next to a
sprouting maple tree before basking in the sun, which is now revealing itself
from behind a cloud.
The man stands,
leaves the garden, and walks towards the remnants of the library. The roof has
collapsed and most of the windows are broken. The crumbing building only
vaguely resembles its previous self. An older gentleman, perhaps in his late
fifties, sits on the steps, apparently unperturbed by the ashes that surround
him.
“Hello,” says
the man to the older gentleman. The gentleman turns his head in the man’s
direction and gazes upon him with penetrating eyes.
“What is your name?” asks the man on the steps.
“Alex, and yours?”
“I have no longer have an identity,” he responds.
“I see. Can you tell me what happened here?” asks Alex,
pointing to the library.
“Fire.”
“When?”
“A month ago.”
“How did it start?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” asks the unnamed man, rhetorically.
“I have no idea, I haven’t been here in. . . Years.”
“Years?”
“I think.”
You don’t sound certain.”
“Ten years,” Alex says with confidence, even though he has
no perspective of time.
“You’re lying, but that’s okay.”
“How do you know I’m lying?”
“Because I see you walk by every day.”
“Every day?”
“Every day.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Who are you?”
“I have no ident—”
“Who were you?” asks Alex.
“You tell me.”
Alex scans the
other man’s face trying to figure out why he feels as though he has met this
mysterious prophet before.
“I remember you. We went to school together.”
“Yes.”
“But, I never caught your name.”
“I have no—”
“I know, I know.
. . But how is it that you have aged twenty years or more while I appear
exactly as I did when I was 21?”
“I guess you have a better moisturizer than I do.”
Alex can’t help
but feel that this man has all the answers to his questions, but starts to
become agitated by the man’s uncongenial responses.
“No, seriously, what happened?”
“It’s your dream, you tell me.”
“My dream?”
“Look at the
sky.” The man points up. The clouds are red, with violet undertones. Where the
sun should be is a red orb, and there are at least three moons visible. Alex
also notices that a thick fog is displaced in every direction, limiting his
field of view to about thirty feet. Alex takes a seat on the steps next to the
man.
“So I am dreaming then?”
“You are indeed.”
“So you aren’t real either?”
“I exist as you
perceive me. And for some reason you chose me
as the figure to lead you through the flames.” The fog suddenly disappears
and is exchange with fire. The entire city begins to burn again, except for the
steps of the library, where the two men converse. “So you are my deity, my
Noah, my Socrates, my Clarence—”
“Baby, I’ll be your everything,” says the man sardonically.
“Oh look, here come the rest.” “Hmmm?”
Suddenly
hundreds of people riding elephants appear from the flames. Each person is
somebody from Alex’s past. Some of the people he spots have been influential in
shaping his character while others have been passing figures.
“This is weird,” says Alex. “Why elephants?”
“Would you
prefer camels?” Suddenly all the elephants transform into alpacas. “Whoops. . .
” and with a shake of his hand the alpacas transform into camels.
“I don’t understand the metaphor.”
“There is no metaphor, it’s nonsense.”
“Then can we make them penguins?” The camels turn into giant
penguins with saddles.
“Beautiful.”
Alex looks back to the man, who now appears about 20 years
old.
The man points
to a woman riding one of the penguins. “Hey, remember her?” Alex’s face
flushes.
“No. . . I. . . What is the purpose of all this?”
“You are feeling lost, you are feeling incomplete, you are
feeling like your life has no purpose.
I am here to guide you, and to
help you reconcile with the past.” “Where am I?” asks Alex?
“What do you mean? You are here of course.”
“No. . . I mean, if this is a dream, where am I currently in
the real world.”
“You are at home, asleep.”
“And who am I?”
“You are 21 years old, and a week ago you graduated from
college.”
“And who I am in this dream world?”
“You are as old
as you would like to be. You can be 30 if you like, or 40 if you really
desire.” The man shifts back into an old man, then a child, and finally back to
a young adult.
“I feel like ten years have passed since I graduated.”
“Then you are 31.”
“And what
happened to me in this dream world? Why do I feel lost, and why am I unable to
remember my past?”
“You remember
what you need to remember. You remember the people you need to remember.”
“Why is my hometown up in flames, why is the university
burned to the ground?”
“In this dream
world, in this depiction of your life, the only way you could leave is to feel
as though there was nothing left for you to leave behind.”
“So I burned it?”
“You burned it to the ground.”
“And then what happened? You said you see me every day.”
“You came back.
. . You came back every day to water the flowers in the garden. You traveled
the world, but no matter where you were, a part of you came back each day.”
“And why would I want to come back?”
“Because you
didn’t feel complete. You felt as though you were leaving something behind and
were never able to completely let go.”
“Well, at least tell me this, did I ever find happiness?”
The man is
silent. The world is completely silent, even the flames that that surround them
are silent. “You found traces of it. . . Your wife—”
“My wife?”
“And your children—”
“I have children?”
“Two.”
“And how is my love for them? Do they bring me joy?” Alex
asks anxiously.
“You pretend to
be happy and to love your life, but something is missing. You were never truly
able to leave your old life behind, so you have always felt like a piece of you
was lost in the fire. You like your wife, but when you look her in the eyes you
see a hint of sadness. And you feel like that sadness is your fault, because
you remain distant to her. When you look at your children, you are captivated
by their innocence. They have her eyes,
and they have the same hint of sadness.”
Alex transform
from a man of 31 to a man of 45, his hair loses its sheen and wrinkles form
beneath his eyelids. “And what happened next?”
“You live alone
on the seventh floor of an apartment building. You have been divorced for six
years and rarely see your children. Your ex-wife resents you for never truly
loving her and being too self-involved. One of your kids dropped out of college
after her second year and has been working as a barista for three years. She is
engaged to a man closer to your age than hers. You resent him. Your son is
finishing up high-school and wants to become a doctor, even though his grades
are barely high enough to get into college.”
Alex turns into
a man of 65. His hair thins and begins to turn snowy white. His figure slims
down and he appears as though he would break at the faintest touch. “And then
what happens?” he asks reluctantly.
“You had a
stroke a couple years ago. You have three grandkids and you got married again.
Your wife also has two kids, but you have only met them a couple times, because
they both live abroad. You recently retired, and spend the majority of your
time reading, writing, or coaching your grandson’s peewee baseball team. Your
ex-wife passed away several years ago but you didn’t go to the funeral. When
your new wife asked why you didn’t go you said it was because it reminded you
too much of your own mortality. You have been having trouble breathing
recently.”
Alex tries to
transform himself into a man of 80 but instead turns 21 again. “Did I not make
it that far?” he asks. The other man shrugs.
“Is that the good life? Is that the life I always dreamed of
having?”
“It is one of many possible outcomes.”
“Yes, if nothing went as planned. How boring.”
“C’est la vie.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Fine, I lied.
You graduated collage when you were 21, traveled the world and met some of the
most extraordinary people who have ever walked the face of the earth. You
married the love of your life when you were 27, which was two years after you
went to the Olympics for the first time. When you were 33 you got your first
book published and it sold millions of copies. You soon became famous and your
writing career took off. You had two kids: a son who would eventually follow in
your footsteps as an athlete and play professional baseball, and a daughter who
was equally as beautiful as her mother. She became a neurosurgeon. When you
turned 50 you and your wife moved to Europe and spent every second month
visiting new countries and falling even deeper in love than you were 25 years
previous. When you were 73 you were awarded the Nobel Prize for literature and
were named one of the most influential people of your generation. You died
peacefully on your 100th birthday in your wife’s arms and the last words you whispered
were I love you.”
“And how do I make that
a reality?”
“You let go.”
“Let go of what?”
“The past. You
let go of the past so you can look ahead to the future.” Alex turns to the
people who continue to walk by. Some of them smile and wave and others seem
completely ignorant to his presence.
“But who will water the garden if I leave?”
“The gardeners.”
A man approaches
with a neutral expression. Alex recognizes him as one of his close friends
during college. The man stands silently, as if he is waiting for Alex to speak
first. Alex turns to the older gentleman and looks on expectantly.
“What do I say?” asks Alex.
“What have you always wanted to say?” asks the gentleman.
Alex turns back
to the other man. “Umm. . . I always thought you were really nice.” The man
doesn’t respond; he continues to stare blankly.
Alex sighs. “I
mean, I always thought you had an ingenious way of looking at the world and
completely revolutionized the way I think. You inspired me, and I never got a
chance to tell you how influential you were in my life. So. . . Thank you.”
The man smiles,
nods, and disappears. A feeling of warmth exudes over Alex. He even managed to
smile. The gentleman next to him gives him a look of approval.
A woman appears
next, and this time Alex has an easier time expressing his feelings. “I am
incredibly glad that we met, although I have always regretted not getting a
chance to really pick your brain. I have met very few people who are as
motivated as you and I think all that you have accomplished is absolutely amazing.”
The woman is
replaced by another man, who towers over Alex in stature. “There was one day
when I was 18, we didn’t know each other very well, but you told me that if I
ever needed somebody to talk to you would always be available to listen. I never
expressed it, but that meant the world to me.”
Each confession
feels more natural, and Alex grows increasingly more enthusiastic. “I think you
need to give yourself more credit, you are an incredibly kind person and you
deserve to be happy. So find what it is that gives you joy and never let it
go.”
“I know we have
had our differences and that I probably gave the impression that I didn’t care
for you very much, but I want you to know that it was only because I was
jealous of how happy-go-lucky you were all the time.”
“You were always
able to make me laugh, and I know that wasn’t always easy. I am sorry if I ever
made you feel worthless, it was just because I had such high standards for
you.”
“I wish you all the best, and I hope you and your family
find true happiness.”
“You were one of
the most influential people in my life. I am so incredibly glad that I had the
opportunity to meet you. It’s funny how our lives turned out, but no matter how
much time passes we will always have our friendship.”
“I didn’t know
what to think when we first met, but you’re not such a bad person. Thank you.”
“I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for.”
And then he is
met with the most difficult goodbye. He can feel her brown eyes gazing upon him
long before he sees her face. He tries to avoid her gaze and swivels his eyes
towards his feet. When he looks up again she is smiling and Alex is absolutely
speechless. He stammers and can’t seem to concentrate on a coherent thought.
Suddenly the steps of the library turn into an auditorium and he is on stage.
The seats are filled with every person he has ever met and she is sitting in
the middle of the front row with a spotlight upon her.
“I. . . I. . .
There. . . I. . . ” He
panics, he looks to the gentleman and pleas for a way off stage.
With his eyes he says, please don’t
make me do this—can’t we just let this one be?
He responds simply by mouthing the words, you must.
“I. . . I. . .
I. . . I wish you a lifetime of happiness. It was a pleasure to have met you
and you will always be dear to me. I hope that life gives you everything that
you have ever wanted from it.” The auditorium disappears and Alex returns to
the dilapidated library steps. The flames that were burning disappear and a
sense of freedom overwhelms Alex, as if the entire weight of the universe has
been lifted off of his shoulders.
“Was it really that easy? Am I free now?”
“How do you feel?”
“Lost, devastated, without purpose.”
“You are free.”
“And now what?”
“You live. You
try your best to be the best possible version of yourself. Try to be a good
person and always seek self-improvement. Find love, find happiness, find
purpose, find success.” “And will I live in a utopia? Will I live a carefree
life without tribulation?”
“Some days you
will be draped in sorrow so thick that you won’t be able to get out of bed. You
will be unable to see the point in taking your next breath. But other days you
will experience love and joy as you never thought possible. All the pain you
have felt will dissipate and you will be incredibly glad to be alive. But most
days you will be somewhere in-between.”
“And what of the others? What will happen to all of the
people I have met?”
“Some of them
will live better than others. They will all have moments of happiness but some
will experience it more than others. Some of them will die young and others
will live full lives. You will meet many of them again, but a copious number of
people who are currently in your life will disappear forever and it will be as
if they never existed.”
“That’s sad. . . ”
“That’s life.”
“Well, I wish everybody the best of luck. What about you?”
“Me?”
“What happens to you?”
The man smiles. “I live, I die, the same as anybody else.
“I must thank you,” says Alex.
“For what?”
“For saving my life.”
“I am a figment of your imagination, I did no such thing.”
Alex looks
around one more time at the dream world he has built. He walks from the steps
of the library to the garden. A small, half-full watering can is near one of
the benches. Alex picks it up and begins to water the lilies. He steps back and
beholds the blooming flowers with delight.
A man wearing a straw hat appears
silently next to him.
“Are you the gardener?” Asks Alex.
“Yes, I am indeed.”
“Then I believe this is yours.”
Alex hands the gardener the watering can. The gardener tips
his hat.
As Alex is walking away he can
hear a dull buzzing sound. It starts as a mere annoyance in the back of his
head but it grows progressively louder until it becomes all he can focus on.
Alex feels as though an alarm clock has been placed with the confines of his
head. The world starts to become foggy and he can feel his consciousness shift
to another plane. He tries to fight the feeling—the feeling of awakening. His
vision becomes foggy and he begins to feel sedated. The world rumbles one more
time before he realizes he is staring at his bedroom ceiling. “C’est la vie. .
. ” he whispers to himself.
All rights belong to the original author, as defined under
the Canadian Copyright Law c .
DannYetman www.DanielYetman.com
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