I paused. “My dream, stretching across the boundary between a restless Monday night and what I assumed was the early, blurred hours of Tuesday, lingered with an eerie clarity that made it…stick, a kind of vividness that was rare enough to feel unsettling. I can only reflect on it due to my prior account…
Dream Journal - 1/14
I was striding forward, cloaked in silence, each step slow and deliberate, as I clutched the frayed remains of a crimson banner. The fabric was worn, polyester threads rough and ragged between my fingers, catching against my skin like sandpaper but weightless, almost insubstantial, like it was barely there. Every detail of this banner—its tattered, once-bright edges, the dull red color faded with time and weather—pressed itself into my mind with a sharpness that was frightening.
Around me, the landscape unfolded in fragments, half-built images pieced together with memory and imagination. The air was sharp and icy, biting into my skin, but it felt distant, like I was wrapped in a thick haze. I moved in some vague direction, driven by a strange instinct. I felt no pain, no discomfort. My body was heavy with the awareness that it was all just neurons firing in my brain, synapses pulling in threads of fleeting memories, stitching them together to create coherence within my personal realm of thoughts. The realization of lucidity crept in, filling me with an odd detachment; even though I knew I was in control of my mind, my movements seemed governed by something else.
Looking down, I examined my body with a sense of distant familiarity and alienation, as though I was observing a version of myself that had somehow splintered off, half-forgotten. My hair, jet-black and unkempt from years of apparent neglect, cascaded down past my waist, wild and tangled, caught up in the vicious, howling wind. It thrashed around me, long, dark strands whipping against my face and neck. The equally black trench coat I wore clung to my frame, heavy and oppressive, almost suffocatingly tight, as if bound to me by invisible chains.
My vision shifted, focusing with unnatural intensity on a small, dark rock nestled on the crumbling concrete beneath my feet. Acting on a vague impulse, I lifted my leg and drove my boot forward. A gleaming steel tip connected with the gravel, sending it skittering forward in a sharp arc. It collided with a large piece of debris, with a resounding crack that echoed into the surrounding quiet. A thick cloud of dust spiraled up from the impact, thin, web-like cracks spidering out across the massive boulder’s surface. The dust clung to the cold air, spreading and hanging there, partly obscuring the ground and creating an even eerier haze around me. This minor act, inconsequential though it seemed, felt intentional, almost strategic—a means to both announce my presence and shroud my movements.
The dream wavered, the image thinning around the edges, like smoke curling away from an air current. For a moment, I thought I might wake, only to find the colors and clarity sharpen once more, locking me firmly in this strange, shifting reality. I was trapped, yet free to observe, caught somewhere between detachment and immersion. It was as if the dream had a mind of its own, guiding me, yet holding me back from understanding.
“I know you’re there. You never could hide well,” I called out, my voice slipping through the dense silence, laced with a quiet confidence that felt unfamiliar and strange in my mouth. The rubble stretched out ahead, a sea of cracked stone and scattered debris, twisted metal rods jutting from the earth like the fingers of some ancient, forgotten beast. A notification flickered into view, a small, digital-looking box in the corner of my vision, reminiscent of a game interface. It held a strange familiarity, a fragment of a memory or impression, tethered to my recent gaming hours. In some ways I found it comforting, this merging of lucid thought and such specific memories within a dreamscape. It meant that this wasn’t some paranormal experience, just…a weird dream? Could it be just that?
“It was for the greater good! Please believe me!” He pleaded, the words barely escaping him in a hoarse shout.
“Taking the words right out of my mouth…rather impressive for all you’ve accomplished.”
“Where’s Elodea? Tell me!” He demanded, voice trembling as much as he was.
“You know that’s irrelevant.” I countered.
“You don’t have to do this, man! We’re best buddies, please!” A shriek echoed out, grating and desperate, distinctive with fear. The voice drifted through the dust cloud ahead, and I saw a figure pressed tightly against the rubble, nearly sinking into it to meld with the shadows.
Friend? The notion was almost laughable. This was no friend of mine. I had no friends, and that wasn’t by choice. You could know that with a single glance at me. Dream me, it seemed, harbored more allies–or not.
“We were,” was my simple retaliation, not cold, but certainly not calm either. The man’s tone reeked of deception, a hollow note that rang untrue. I sensed it instinctively, as if an invisible line connected his intention to my mind. The understanding was automatic, built into the dream’s fabric—he was strong enough not to plead for his life, and yet here he was, attempting to manipulate with every word.
He wore a charcoal gray colored winter coat of oversized dimensions, stuffed to the brim with some kind of white plush that leaked out of the weak fabric at any hole or incorrect seam. The coat seemed to absorb every sliver of light, merging him seamlessly into the shadows that clung to the decayed remains of stone and steel around him. Still, by dream logic, my vision wound around to see him with ease. His jeans, dark, torn, and dirtied, hugged his legs like armor. Their texture looked rough, almost animalistic, as though crafted from worn leather or scavenged hides. In each hand, he brandished a pair of silver-like daggers; the blades glinted dangerously under the pale moonlight. His face was twisted in a grimace, teeth clenched, though his voice dripped with exaggerated desperation, a shrill tone that grated against the cold air. His hair was matted and bloodstained, wild red strands tangled across his forehead, clinging to the sweat and grime smeared across his skin, yet his eyes burned with a twisted resolve beneath the mess.
Unbeknownst to me, a secondary foe had crept up behind me, leaping out with a fierce intensity and latching its maw onto my arm. I bit into my tongue deeply; the appendage tore disturbingly, spurting out some adhesive liquid in all directions. It stuck like gum to the deepest reaches of my oral cavity and painted an overlay to my insides where it continued to dribble down to. I choked, coughing wildly, my feeble frame endeavoring to not suffocate on the fluid. Meanwhile, I swung my arm around with abandon, attempting to dislodge a monstrously large dog which had grabbed on with its pointed teeth, the sharp incisors digging in as best they could; I could only be thankful that I couldn’t feel the painful sensation it may have created were it to be actually happening. The dog had a sleek, black coat of fur that seemed just as dark as the man’s jacket. My dream self let out a strangled cry as my ‘friend’ peered past his barricade and extended his arm out, shutting his eyes tightly. The creature matched my cry with a snarl while bright sparks flew out of the man’s hand, which still was angled at me; his forehead creases gave away his deep concentration. With a sudden spurt and crackle, a swirling orb of mixed blue and red flames puffed out of the man’s palm. The red hot particles coming off the flame sizzled the gravel, the blaze continuing to circulate. It glowed, mesmerizing in my eyes. I amazedly watched as it grew to encompass the size of his head, flames darting out randomly to grow the larger mass. It scorched the air around him and created mirrored ripples, although no smoke seemed to leak from the fireball. The entire process was far too quiet for my liking, and the dog peskily stayed attached, trying its best to be another appendage. Everything was getting a bit too difficult to follow now, just a tad too convoluted for me to comprehend; it looked like I had managed to somehow get the bleeding inside my mouth under control and swallowed the remainder, with whatever means I must have employed. Dream me yanked the beast roughly in front of me and hid behind it, my opposition emitting a discordant, “NO!”
The fireball separated from his hand and flew awfully quickly towards me, continuing to shoot off sparks into the ruins. I just pressed myself closer to the dog, feeling its body and thick pelt cushion the blast. The creature didn’t even attempt to stop me, as if only trained to bite on. I kept my gaze a hair’s length above my shield, witnessing as the man gave up on hiding and ran wimpishly towards the fireball he had thrown. It was no use; With a blast on par with a bomb detonating, flames surged like a tsunami, heat radiating onto my skin, and I ducked further behind the monster. I ignored everything as the area was turned to dust around me, intensely focused on some other random stone. I only looked up when the creature finally relented and fell with a wind-creating thump and a cracking sound sourcing from either its bones or the floor beneath it–I did not find it particularly easy to tell. Charred completely and utterly to a crisp, the beast lay before them. The man had sat down atop a boulder dejectedly, not even paying me more mind. The rubble around me lay blackened and ashen in grayscale. I made no move towards him.”
I shut the journal gently without a sound, padding my pockets for yet another, to the annoyance of my eager audience. I heard not a small quantity of audible exasperation.
“I apologize, but I must ask the importance of these random stories from your planet prior to your integration?” queried the vassal, rising to his feet.
“Do you think yourself worthy to mouth off to such a figure?! One who just spared your life? He could kill us at a whim…” reprimanded the lord, fearfully apologizing to me indirectly, not even sparing a glance at his underling. “Let’s, uh, hear him out, then send him off with gifts.” The vassal sat once more. He ought to be more frightened for his life, but I wasn’t about to advance on him. Many who sat at the tables leaned in to listen eagerly. Feeling rushed, I yanked out another, this one painted a chipped silver. I began reading again without a hint of hesitation, speaking quickly.
“Dear Diary,
I really don’t have an idea what to put in here, so I may as well write my experiences, fill some time somehow, tell it like a story. I think that it’ll be good practice for later…to write every single conflicting thought running through my head down on this paper, even if the papers that might make me some money couldn’t be filled.
The blaring cacophony of a silver digital alarm clock, which had been sounding off for hours and no longer served any factual purpose, ended abruptly. This sudden change was caused by a pale, bony hand—unmarked by scars or calluses of any kind—weakly sliding it aside, just hard enough to knock it off the nightstand. Still mostly asleep, I murmured lazily, “An-and stay down……kid.”
What once displayed the time in oversized, grainy red letters flickered “11:36” repeatedly until it finally gave out, surrendering to its inevitable fate as if reflecting my own. The resulting crash and shattering of glass was enough to snap me awake. For about a second. My eyelids, momentarily open, shut again, concealing eyes that shone a bright, verdant green.
“Problem-” I yawned.
“…for later me…” I finished, muttering barely loud enough for the walls to catch it. In fact, I almost wished they would answer back, maybe throw out some words of encouragement. So, of course, like any sane person, I heard their response, the blank, white wall in front of me deforming to create a smiley face in the center.
“Hey, kiddo! You’re doing just fine!” It told me in a gravelly voice before returning to its standard state.
“No…no, I don’t think I am,” I replied, with a flat face, eyes lowering to look at the ground. I slapped myself again to snap myself out of it…must have been a holdover.
I eyed a transparent orange pill bottle sitting on a fragile nightstand to the right of my bed. I had manipulated my way into selling quite the number of half full bottles, seizing the top off anything that might at least alter the weight of what I carried. Hallucinogens to make it more interesting, sedatives to further dull out an already monotonous existence, sometimes both at once, to just destroy myself. Maybe I could do with a clean day, for once.
I raised my hand for a limp, almost apologetic slap to my cheek. My hand made contact, and I half-expected some life force to spark me awake magically. Eyes still tightly shut, I pinched my wrist, harder than was probably necessary, but finally enough to pull me into consciousness.
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With a dramatic sigh, a catchphrase of mine, I threw my silky blue sheets aside. They tangled around my legs as if they, too, didn’t want me to get up. A vibe. But I was committed—or at least, I was stubborn. Sitting up a bit too fast, the stars of temporary blood loss decorated my vision. One brush of my head against the low ceiling reminded me just how cozy my kingdom truly was. I rubbed my eyes until they stung, probably grinding in days’ worth of dust and regret; but by now, what did it matter? Blindness could only improve my view, stop me from having these pesky perceptions of life.
Stretching my arms above my head like every other cliché in existence, I forced my joints to crack into action before letting my arms drop like deadweight at my sides. In a last-ditch effort to feel remotely inspired, I tried remembering a dream from last night—anything, really, that could inspire some poetic beginning for my book. But my mind was as blank as the page staring back at me from my notebook. Not a single idea. Nothing. Blank. Nada. Synonyms. Instead, I wrote in here, telling you how I couldn’t write what I actually needed to write.
Being a “writer” wasn’t exactly a lifestyle–it was a mediocre last choice, a final effort to contribute meaningfully to the world, a second option to escape from my previous line of work. It was also what my father had done on the side, some form of a legacy. Or rather, I attempted it simply to feel some purpose and possibly have food, whatever kind, on my table. I hadn’t eaten much lately, making the effort mostly worthless, but...
Sliding onto the creaky hardwood floor of my motel room, my bare feet were forced to adapt to the cool surface quickly. At one point, I had been amazed by how fancy it was, purely based on the flooring and how it technically had more than one floor-how foolish I was. I jumbled the words of “Another day in paradise,” mixing the statement with “American Dream, my ass,” so that it came out as “Another ‘merican day in my ass.” The walls could hear my complaints, and wouldn’t laugh at me for that classic mishap. After all, they were my closest confidants. It’d be nice to have an audience, even if it was only some inanimate objects that I made animate. Hadn’t had anyone to talk to in… what, a year? Well, aside from phone calls, but I didn’t count that. Just me and the household objects gang, the truest crew around. I crouched slightly, bending my head low enough to be perceived as bowing, to avoid slamming my head into the ceiling.
I glared angrily at the remains of what had once been a functioning alarm clock, willing it to disappear and stop wasting my time. Too bad. I wish the world worked like that. The piece of simple machinery was a noble soldier in the war against oversleeping that I’d accidentally punted off my nightstand. Well, ‘punted’ was a strong word, but it couldn’t hurt to try to feel stronger in my head. I glared at it, mentally willing it to vanish. “I could probably fix it,” I thought. “Or… buy another.” A bitter laugh escaped me. Yeah, as if I had the funds for that, because I had inherited a seventy billion dollar hedge fund as an eight-year-old and had a personal butler to do my bidding. The motel would likely just add it to my tab at a markup.
I caught my arm halfway before it had snatched the darkened orange pill bottle, eyes bulging and red. It was of no use to tell myself off–pangs were only to be expected. Today was going to be a sober one. A clean day. The journey to anywhere else in this excuse for an abode was a difficult one. One had to traverse the great plains of fast food containers and old junk worth nothing, but once someone like me learned the layout of this mess, navigating it wasn’t difficult at all. I would have to clean it out at some point, that point not being anywhere near now. Venturing down from the loft, down the thin stairs blandly carpeted in material that should have been used nowhere and never, I scratched my chin with one hand and prodded a pimple on my nose with the other. There weren’t many pimples on my face, but this one was certainly noticeable among my otherwise sharp-enough features. It wasn’t truly hidden by my matted brown hair, which hadn’t been cut in about two years—and was yet another reason not to go outside. Not that I needed excuses, though; I had no one to give them to.
The rest of the day disappeared without entirely registering clearly in my memory, only fleeting moments of movement or generalizations sticking around. I made my way to the kitchen, or the “setup,” as I called it, since it was more accurately a corner equipped with a mini-fridge, microwave, and countertop with dubious structural integrity. With zero enthusiasm, I poured myself some ancient pre-made coffee from the fridge into a crusty, green mug. I couldn’t remember how long it had been there, since I hadn’t been the one to buy it, but it did the job, meaning I was awake and mildly repulsed in equal measure. As I sat at my desk—a rickety thing squashed in the corner—I stared at my notebook, fingers tapping aimlessly. The page was as empty as my inspiration, whereas the pages in this useless diary kept getting flipped to add more to. I spun a pen between my fingers in an attempt to look like a real author to the nonexistent audience observing, though the act was less “creative genius at work” and more “guy who has no idea what he’s doing but has some impressive fidgeting skills and also is definitely scared someone is behind him so they keep spinning around fearfully with paranoia, expecting there to be some mystical attacker.” That would be an accurate description too…I felt that there was something behind me constantly, just about to spring out and jab me through the throat. After about an hour of increasingly desperate and rushed, anxious doodles, I threw in the towel. The novel would write itself someday, right? I’d simply sit down one day, and it’d all pour out. That’s how it worked for people like me, surely, and just as surely the pangs would stop, my hands would stop shaking, and…oh…speaking of, I really need to take some more-No…not today. I shouldn’t mention every thought I have, but it only feels right to put down everything here.
Surrendering to the inevitable, I ripped my outdated, dark and blocky replacement phone from the back pocket of my worn jeans, a pair I’d thrown on a day ago and hadn’t bothered changing since. The screen was smudged, cracked in the corner, and I caught an unfortunate glimpse of my reflection, making me feel the need to flip my hair before I forced my attention to the screen. Swiping past my dismal notifications, I braced myself as I checked my bank balance—a habit that had taken on a kind of grim ritual, like how I’d once idly checked my online gradebook, knowing the scores were nothing worth seeing as they tended to be consistent.”
It only took but a momentary pause for the vassal to jut in, “What exactly is a ‘phone’?” before he was shut down by the lord once more. The murmuring in the hall had intensified, so I continued, louder this time.
“Two digits. That was all I had left. Two measly digits, and not a cent more. Sure, they could last me the month if I stretched, but only if I pretended the mountain of debt lurking behind them didn’t exist. It wasn’t as if I owed more money than I could ever earn in my lifetime, or that what effectively was my rent was…due tomorrow. It was just another problem to ignore until it roared up in flames, and, even then, part of me would probably still think, Eh, it’ll burn itself out.
The one or two virtual freelance gigs I’d taken over the past months were distant memories I’d prefer to forget. Then there was the summer job after graduation—a customer service gig that had left an unpleasant taste lingering even now. Still, maybe it was time to try again, for survival’s sake if nothing else. I had likely worked at other companies but forgotten by now because of unimportance.
As I glanced through my apps, the total lack of notifications confirmed what I already knew: no one was reaching out. But I needed a voice, a sign of life. Without thinking too hard, I shot a call to my best friend. He answered on the third ring.
“Hello? …This is John, do you have the right number?” He asked, confused. I paused for a few seconds, uncertainty making me unwilling to respond. “...Hey…uh, dude, remember me? It’s Alaric! From 1st period calc? …You know, we sat next to each other!” I responded, trying to sound enthusiastic, and I was, to some degree, enthusiastic at the idea of some form of connection, but I wasn’t quite sure.
“I’m so sorry, but I don’t seem to remember you-Oh. Weren’t you…yeah, the stoner kid?” He replied, sounding disgusted just saying it and annoyed at my call. I paused for a moment to allow my face to fall.
“It was…just a phase…dude…Come on, now!” I laughed a bit too loudly, leaving little to the imagination about my present state. “Want to, uh, catch up sometime?”
“Wait…weren’t you close with Christopher Fuentes? Yeah, yeah, I would like to have a…I guess you could say a chat. I’ll be at the Diamond Cafe down by Greenswood. Are you available soon? I’d like it if you could meet me there at noon tomorrow?”
“I don’t know who you mean.” I blustered, hanging up without bothering to give a simple answer. I exited the app, staring at my phone, the dull ache of rejection washing over me. The ache of not even allowing myself to gain new opportunities. Not the first time. Won’t be the last, judging by how I tend to be; exactly why I can’t have nice things. Everyone hates me, I hate me, and why shouldn’t they all?
“Shit! What am I even doing?!” I asked myself rather loudly. The response I received was a sharp banging on the wall from the room next to mine.
Well…No, I probably shouldn’t…I see no reason to call anyone I don’t know enough again. Never again, never again…go back to my comfort zone…back to this room, back to this mental state. I could continue to get my friendship from people who aren’t there, as long as I lived by the fact that when I wanted them to go away, they would. That if I even came close to touching them, they would fade away. My feet moved without my volition to the front door, my hand trailing down the chipped, white paint, applied years before.
I stopped myself just a second before I threw my phone at the ground with full force, trying to calm myself down–what would papa say if I broke something so valuable? Especially back in the bad times…I could just call someone else–call someone else, and channel my anger into slamming my fist into the door. Who to call, who to call…Noticing their name on my contacts, being one of the considerable list of 3 numbers I’d compiled besides spam or companies sending verification codes, I called my cousin Jeffrey. Any other options were numbers I’d blocked. The phone rang for a minute, the buzz creating the same tone as the reverberations of the door, before going to voicemail, so I called again. Just enough to make him pick up.
“The fuck do you want?” He hissed directly into the microphone. My upper body tensed up, and I shied away from the phone. “Just wanted to say hello…” I answered faux-casually, pacing back and forth.
“Well, hello there, mister no motives other than friendliness. Didn’t I tell you not to call me while I was at work?” He exhaled harshly. “Speaking of, how’s the job search going? Did you give up on that?”
“Oh…It’s, um…going well? I secured a few interviews.” I lied badly, abruptly hanging up on him to avoid answering more questions before he could finish his statement of, “Be honest with me n-”
I instantly regretted doing so when I realized he would get upset at me if I tried to call again…but what if he had realized who I truly was? That I’m like…this…he wouldn’t ever talk to me again…so it was a good thing I hung up. The silence is too loud, the grinding of gears in my head is deafening. I began to doom scroll—any social media I could get my hands on; I was already on my phone, wasn’t I? Just a way to pass the time, distract myself further from these signals my body was sending me, all the while hating everyone whose lives seemed so much better. Why? I did well in school and I did the work! Shouldn’t that have been enough to get a job? I mean, I could have continued doing that…But back when I was at full mental capability, shouldn’t I be given what I need to succeed greatly? No. I guess not! I punched my leg in frustration.
All that led me to the dismal internet search queries of “How to forget,” “How to feel happier,” and “Are some people just better than others?” I think they might just be, inherently, before even their birth.
At least I could have the appeal of sliding around lithely through the halls with my slippery socks like a majestic beast stalking its prey while I observed these nightmarish assholes on their yachts or in their mansions that they bought with daddy’s money. Yeah, my big achievement of the day—sliding across the floor as though I’d somehow conquered the laws of physics. While I do that, tell me all about your summer trip to go skiing with your family, how you’ll be heading to your beach house. How you did it all while younger than me. The little things in life are what get me through a day, just a little bit of hatred. Show me your new status, Gregory. Give me more pictures to get printed out and push-pin onto the board, you know, connect it all with a red string like a detective would. Get me some new wastes of my very limited money.
I graciously partook in brief breaks to stretch some more or to simply stare at the ceiling and wait for the overcoming feeling of blankness that stemmed from my daily routine to disappear. It didn’t disappear, instead only intensifying, and with that realization, I promised myself there and then I would at least eat something. Even still, another day ended. Finally shutting the device off only when the battery began to dwindle, hours later, I pushed myself to head to the microwave.
Believe me, I tried to eat something healthy, to start dieting right here and now and improve my physique. To grab the spinach nestled in the back right corner of the fridge or the salad mix on the left. Inevitably, I nuked some frozen pizza bagels I had gotten delivered yesterday. They came out of the microwave steaming hot, but their texture was all wrong—spongy and soft with a chewy crust that had no crispness. The cheese had melted unevenly, leaving rubbery patches clinging to the bagels, and the pepperoni was small, curled at the edges, and greasy, with an odd sheen that only made it look more artificial. The taste wasn’t much better. The sauce was bland, with only a faint hint of tomato, and the cheese tasted more like a greasy film than anything rich or flavorful. The pepperoni was overly salty and a bit tough, but I still ate them without really thinking about it. I brought out a bottle of cheap wine I’d found on sale online and poured myself a more-than-generous glass. The wine had a faint bitterness, metallic and acidic, and it burned slightly going down, but I tipped the glass and downed it in one long sip without a second thought, not pausing to sputter nor enjoy the buzz.
As usual, my thoughts turned inward, spiraling through the same well-worn paths of regret and self-pity. It was a nightly ritual by now, this aimless reflection on the wreckage of my past. Not one particular moment—no sharp, singular event—just the endless accumulation of small, mundane miseries. The so-called "first-world problems" of a social outcast, each insignificant on its own, but together forming a crushing weight.
One memory, however, had a habit of clawing its way to the surface more than the others. A vivid, haunting recollection of me acting like a fool in public, the fuel for my hatred. The kind of mistake that lingers long after everyone else has forgotten, replaying itself in cruel detail whenever I was alone with my thoughts, even if one other than myself wouldn’t consider it on me."
