Our dreams are fiction filled with fact, and the world we live in is fact filled with fiction. When darkness consumes me, I am drawn into another world. In this world I seem to be constantly sitting at a table typing. A black and white picture of a black actor is in front of me, showing the apex of ‘cool’. On a black and white poster hanging on my wall, a black athlete with his fists raised looks focused and highlights the virtues of determination. Two black speakers exude smoky sexy jazz infusing me with an indelible rhythm.
Black foreign symbols on an A4 piece of paper exclaim “Rouse up O young men of the new age!”
A black watch on my wrist tells me the time, but often the numbers warp and twist and the current time remains a mystery.

I was walking around this bizarre yet familiar world. I was currently staying in a metallic abode near the ocean. Inside was also metallic with a soft and comfortable fabric covering. It was like a room from a cruise ship ripped from the hull and transplanted onto land alongside a mishmash of other metallic abodes. Everybody I knew in this world was heading down to the beach. I was asked if I wanted to join, but I declined as I was waiting for a certain person to arrive. While waiting for her to arrive I lay down on a comfy masseuse table that I used as a bed. The wait was not tedious; the warm weather and the bright sun pushed me towards a calm relaxation. I waited and I relaxed, and I almost drifted off to sleep, but hoping that she would come kept me awake. Eventually I got up and checked outside. A girl I knew (but not her) was heading down to the beach, and so I accompanied her. The beach was on a hidden cove. It was beautiful, and fantastical. A guy I know asked me whether I wanted to go surfing. I did, but I had not brought my surfboard with me, so I headed back to my metallic abode to retrieve it and also to check whether she had come or not.

When I got back things were different. I was different. I struggled to remember who I was, and then I saw her. Her memory was fragmented just like mine. She didn’t know me. I tried to explain to her who she was, but I myself could not remember who she was, or who I was. We had met once more, but this time as strangers to each other and to ourselves. I struggled and I fought with the confusion but I was split between different characters, not knowing which one was the real me. Eventually she jumped onto me and clung to me with the tightest of hugs. She did not know who she was, and I did not know who I was, but I was resolute on carrying the both of us out of this confusion in which we found ourselves. Many of her personalities appeared and pounced on me like wild animals. I slowly moved as the weight of her was beginning to hinder me. Eventually I could walk no further, and I fell to the ground with her on my back still tightly clasping my body. I lay there unable to move, but still able to feel the warmth and intensity of her tight hug. Her hug was warmer than any summer’s day, and it filled me with…

Our dreams are fiction filled with fact, and the world we live in is fact filled with fiction. There is no discernible difference between the two.

The mirror shatters as the illusion breaks.

She wants me to stop writing. She knows that me writing this is an antidote to the madness that she induces in me... She wants me to forget and to go back to how it was before. I cannot forget her.
I wish I could say that I was being forced to choose between two worlds, but choice is an illusion and I find myself stuck. I can’t shake the static growing inside of me.

Narrator: It sounds like the Dreamer is beginning to lose himself.
Note the many different personalities he describes, and the forgetting his own identity.
The Dreamer has been playing too many different characters and has forgotten his own identity.
He’s living in a dream world.
Are you?

Empty Nothing

I live my life like a man already dead
Looking back at each present moment
Questioning, “Am I really living?”

I am nothing more than a ghost floating through life
You may hold my hand and feel my warmth
You can look into my eyes and see my soul
But when I am alone I am nothing
Nowhere, No here, No thing
When you see me I am merely a reflection
A reflection of what you choose to see
But when I see my own reflection… emptiness

In my heart and in my soul I am empty
I do not pretend otherwise
There is nothing beneath the surface
I am empty and I am nothing
But I see life in others
I see life in the world around me
And there is life in me

I am empty and I am nothing
What you see and what I feel
It’s just a collection of moments turned to past
Every place I’ve ever been
Every experience I’ve ever felt
Every person I’ve ever seen
And every dream I’ve ever dreamed
That’s what you see when you see me

But deep down in the very core of my heart and soul
I know
I am empty
I am nothing
Because
I am a blank canvas
And I colour myself with life everyday

Narrator: The Dreamer begins to believe that he is as empty as the characters he dreams.
The Dreamer imagines himself to be a self-dream.
Are we all dreams?
Are we imaginary characters that we make up for ourselves based on our memories?
You could have been anyone, but you were shaped by your life.
But what’s to stop you from being those other people regardless?

Dream poetry

Last night I was writing poetry in my sleep
The dream was more real than what I feel now

Narrator: Then dreams woke up.
And sun down went.
My time in this world.
Had been spent.

The Sound of the Roaring Tide

A roaring tide brought us together
Our hands clasped
Our lips met
Two beating hearts
Beating as one
Lost in each other’s eyes
Sharing another moment
Everything brought us here
The roaring tide
The warming sun
The wistful moon
They rise and fall
Crashing down on our lives
Hurling us towards inescapable beauty
Burning passions ignite
To the sound of the roaring tide

Narrator: The Dreamer was irresistibly attracted to her in the dream.
And her to him.
A force like gravity pulled them together.
The roaring tide that brings people together…
Is it hidden in the subconscious?

To be continued...

@RiskDebonair
Irish Writer, Poet, & Lover

Previously

Dream 3
Dream 2
Dream 1
The Dream Before the First Dream