(Today's story includes descriptions and experiences. They are not real. That is all.)
The occurrence of waking and dreaming shares one common characteristic: beginnings. Every story happens in the middle. There is no start.
I am awake.
My head's spinning. The light stings, poking, playful yet menacing. It's a soft yellow, dim and unaware of how bright it should be. This bothers me.
I slowly count the facts.
I think of a tree, a green one, slowly growing to fruition. It gives me apples. I like apples. I hate dim lights. My name is ...
(The door opens. Someone walks in.)
He sits down. His face has a blank yet disdainful expression. He reminds me of an inflatable chair, one that's expensive enough to look real; he can go anywhere and become part of anything. He's wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, the drab suit and suitcase of our time.
He looks like a conformist.
"Do you know why you're here?" His voice is grating. I don't respond.
"This is the fourth time this month you've passed out next to my building. It's the second time I've watched your 'friends' leave you in the street. Naturally, I got tired of wondering whether you were going to tour the morgue, so I brought you in."
He's looking at me like I'm a problem he's get tired of solving. I can feel myself getting angry, frustrated. I don't need this. I get up off the couch when I realize two important details.
I'm missing my wallet. And they're gone.
He holds up a brown paper bag.
"Is this what you're looking for? I took it away while you were still comatose."
I get up to take it but he moves it away. All of a sudden, I get nauseous. It usually takes me about an hour to get my bearings after I wake up. The room spins backwards and its not letting me down anytime soon. He hands me some water, which at this point, I gratefully accept.
(Psychological cures are often the best.)
He looks at me in a peculiar way. Then he looks away. This repeats for a few minutes.
"Do you know that I was once like you?"
I start to giggle. It's been a long time since I laughed like this. Of course, laughing and head-splitting headache don't go well together, but I can't help myself. It's hilarious how cliche this is.
"What is this supposed to be? Bonding? You're making me laugh. You're such an idiot."
His face remains carefully blank, but I can tell he's boiling. He spontaneously smirks.
"Yeah, you're pretty right much. I was never like you. I didn't sit around killing time getting wasted. I certainly didn't hang out next to random people's houses, unconscious. Truthfully, I can't imagine being as screwed up as you are right now."
Now i'm boiling. But at the moment, I'm too tired to think properly. All I want to do is lie down and never wake up. I hear death offers discounts.
There's a voice in my head. It's saying get back the bag. I listen to this voice a lot. It makes me happy, happier anyways.
There's also a little voice in my head. It's not a voice I like to think about. I usually try to ignore it. But if I listened to it, it would be saying something like, why are you doing this. I don't like this voice. It occasionally reminds me of what I'd rather not consider.
I slowly lower my eyes to adjust my expression. Composure, I tell myself. Just keep it together and get out of here. I get up off the couch. I reach for the bag.
He's surprised but jerks it out of my reach. I walk ... towards the door, and rush back for the table. He grabs me and holds me back. I suddenly realize he's a big guy. Nevertheless, I'm not giving up.
He looks nervous for some reason. His expression perturbs me and I can't put my finger on why. That kind of anxiety doesn't seem appropriate for the situation, seeing as I'm the wronged party here.
One epiphany later, some great divine spiritual being hammers it into my head that I'm attacking a person who quite literally pulled me off of the street for a bag of god-knows-what.
It's at that moment that I catch a glimpse of the sleeve of my jean jacket. I realize its stained with dirt. My jeans are likewise. I stagger backwards and disentangle from him and look at the mirror hanging from the wall.
I see bloodshot eyes and a dark circles. I see a haggard expression, not from physical exhaustion, but from lack of soul. There's someone staring back at me, but who is this ragged looking zombie?
It's not a particularly dramatic reveal, but in my current state, it makes me ponder some small questions that added up to big ones.
How many nights has it been since I've gotten rest, real rest? How many days since I really knew what I wanted? How many moments have gone by since whatever this is started?
I rush through the door. I don't want to think. I can hear him calling behind me, but I'm outside already.
The early morning air is cool and refreshing. It's been a long time since I've been up this early. For some reason, I feel worse than I have in a long time. The dimness is suffocating. It just makes me feel sick.
And yet...I can feel the coolness. I can see the dim light. It's not artificial. It's real and it's outside.
The sun's already risen and there's some dew on the sparse grass between the sidewalks.
I kick off my shoes and just start walking. I'm walking on the grass. And I'm crying. I didn't think I was, but apparently I am.
I'm probably still high.
But maybe not ...
(To be continued ...)
