// Dr. //
I want you to tell me, why do you do what you do to yourself? I’ve sat here and spoken to you for almost two years now, but we never end up talking about this in particular. Why are you running from a confidential conversation? I’m here to hear what you tell me, R. I promise, I’m not going to look at you any different no matter what you tell me.
// R. //
Have you ever woken up to a world of realists? They refuse to dream. They’re fighting for everything and there’s no prize to be won. The podium is empty, the stage has been cleared but they still go on and wait. They spend eighty years of their life waiting in the audience for the spotlight to come on.
I didn’t do that. For the first fourteen years, I was happy. I saw colour and light. I like the dawn as much as you’d like the sound of a clarinet played beautifully. The maestros only come out once the shadows are long and the bulbs are blinking. I painted daisies and listened to happy trails of words left behind by people who dreamt all their life.
And then I woke up. But its like I woke up from a beautiful dream and I woke up into a nightmare. They’re ripping each other apart. All they want is a giant house with a mowed lawn. A white picket fence and always enough to spend. They want to sit at a desk and run through the pages like a horse in a race. They’re functioning on a default setting, a factory model that no one chose to flip the switch on.
But I’m now one of them. I see black and I paint blood. I draw on my skin because death by choice is forbidden. I carve into my thighs and write on the walls all the words I wish they’d turn to hear. But when I spin around, all that’s left in my hand is shattered glass. I can’t quite touch the horizon, it moves too fast for me. But I know, I’m chasing after kites in the wind. They’re bright and calm you see. Much of how my dreams used to be. And now I don’t sleep at all, the rest does not come even is my conscious lays limp in a five-by-eight. I wake up every day into a universe that’s scratching into its skull, pulling out their innocence for the world to trample on.
You see, Doctor? I’m not what I was. I’m not even a who. I’m a machine with broken parts that have run down and can’t be repaired by other machines. These are not my people. I wake up from my dreams into a nightmare seven billion people share every single day. For the twenty four hours on the clock, I can’t say it gives me much. I wake up again into seven days of a week, three hundred and sixty five days of the year. We’re still spinning, still trying to break out of maze that we made and forgot about. We’re breaking into the labyrinth, not out.
// Dr. //
I’d hate to break it to you, R, but the nightmare’s not all yours. Wake up, silly child, this is all there is. You’re stuck in a single digit mind, your body is all worn. I’m standing in front of you and I promise you one thing I’ve learnt in all these years, flighty girls lose their wings sooner or later. You better learn to walk, R.
// R. //
You’re wrong because you’re one of them and you don’t even know it. Sleep, Doctor, and watch your own dreams once in a while.