I had the worst dream last night.
It wasn’t a proper nightmare. Proper nightmares and I are actually sort of friends, or at least familiar acquaintances. When we drive by each other, we lift our fingers off the wheel in a sort of wave. When we see each other’s names in the paper, our mouths do that shape of ‘I know that guy.’ When one of us drops something in the grocery store, the other one will lean over to pick it up first.
But this was just a crappy dream.
The house was on fire. Not my house. Not your house. Just the house, the house we all were in. There was one door, which I checked with the back of my hand, like they taught me in grade school. Do they still teach that? Probably. Fire stays the same. Hand check said: everything is fire. Visual check confirm: everything is fire.
There was one window that didn’t open all the way. Good enough, though. I’m like an octopus, in both real life and a dream — if my beak can fit through the hole, so can the rest of me. I shoved everyone out through the hole.
But not you. Who is you? It was Not Me, and so it had to be you. You were sitting up on the second floor balcony in a ridiculously upholstered chair, legs crossed. You were staring at a book while everything around you burned.
I came for you, I told you.
I can’t fit through that hole, you replied, still staring at the book.
You haven’t even tried, I said.
Have you even seen the hole? you said. Have you seen me?
Even in the dream I was running the options. I could work with physics. I could fix the hole. I couldn’t work with despair.
So you’re just going to give up? I demanded.
You looked up from the book. Ash was rising from the ground around you — I don’t know if that’s how ash works in a house fire situation or if that’s just what my brain said should happen because of too many recreational bonfires — and it looked like you were underwater.
You said, I never liked real life. Not like you. You’ve always liked real things.
You picked the book back up again.
I climbed through the hole and the house burned down and with it, you and your stories.
I woke up and I figured I’d better tell you before the fire starts that you can make the stories real, and that’s the reason why I like the real things. Next time, if you try to make it through the hole, I’ll try to show you how to close the gap between story and real, ok?
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
baratheonpilled
dededos
jbbartram-illu
pixelskylines
annaxmalina
