We all dream about things we have not done, cannot do. We all dream about tremendously terrifying people because we cannot fathom ourselves to be that way. We all dream that we can fly, that we can run away from any sort of danger, that we can say the things we have always wanted to say, because we know that we cannot in life. I am meandering along, having always known this, and never ready to confront myself. I haven’t thought to just go do the things I dream, so I can wake up and fall asleep alone, sleep alone, have my head inside myself, alone.
We would never go on this trip, to that part of the earth so far away. He made it up, and he spoke it to me while I was too unconscious to tell him it was wrong. I know that we can’t fly, but I couldn’t tell him that at the time. It was too far. I couldn’t handle the waiting, for that many days, in the rain and the darkness with so many sick and terrible people around me. I would sooner take the long route across the many seas and miles of deserts and days of history. Why did we have to be the ones that had to fly, people that flew often died. People that walked often died, but once again, I couldn’t have told him that.
He had so many siblings that day, I think he was pretending though. He probably didn’t even know who they were. This man that owned the hotel we stayed in, he was so intrigued by the difficulties in adult relationships, I imagined that maybe he had never been an adult, just a person, growing old but not really growing on. His eyes were large as I told him, as I willingly patronized him, so that I could be left alone.
There are people who do this, make decisions at the beginning of their lives as to how they will deal with situations. I have always been one to decipher the mood and play on the person in heat, patronize them, heighten them to martyr status until their head is about to explode and pull them down, leaving them with the farthest from the truth, so that I can get on with my own lies inside my own head. She too used the distraction method, but perhaps her patience was a little short in comparison to my own. She made a hole in the door where this man was, this fragile child in the body of a man. It wasn’t a carefully thought out hole made with a drill or a pen knife, it wasn’t a heavy violent hole made with a fist or a hammer, it was a quick precise hole made with a gun. Guns were something we dreamt about on weekends, because on weekends we hoped never to see guns. She did this. She did this to distract him, to lock him there, the younger brother, the most willing to die, so that we could get away.
Sometimes we dream of theme parks where we can smell the excitement, see the lights, hear the bullshit coming out of the carnival workers mouths’, but we never get to go on a ride. We never get to eat anything, buy anything, keep anything. Memories are really fake when you are asleep. You wish you can take a photograph and show the rest of the waking world what you have seen and known and loved, but you can’t, because it isn’t real. We were sliding down a plastic wonderland, the thought of razors and dystopia and providence ingrained into the back of our sleeping minds. We pass separate stages of tacky warehouse goods and tacky high school friends, and everyone is talking away from us. Once we hit the bottom, it is always time to leave.
The scenery was dense. It had rained for a week, before we got there. Some invisible people had been cutting the grass back, and now the air smelt of suffocation. If I were not dreaming, I would probably have died that day.
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