I went to a party. It was in my honor. There were lots of things I wasn't sure about: whether I deserved it, whether I should pretend I deserved it, whether I should just say hi to everyone and slip away quietly. And there was a girl, I didn't know her but she knew me, who told me I would go have fun and she told me to go have fun, dammit, and pushed me into the crowd, but I didn't want to. I think she knew that. She was hoping I'd cave under pressure, but instead I just sneaked out, because I was afraid of her. She saw me go. Our eyes met; she looked, not hurt, but disappointed. And we both knew I didn't deserve it.
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True, I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy, which is as thin of substance as the air.
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Sometimes you wake up every morning for a month with your heart pounding and this sense of dread, this sense that there's something wrong with your brain, but by the time you calm yourself down and get out of bed you can't quite remember what the dream was about. And that starts to bother you, too, because you have this conviction that it's been the same dream every time.
So you start writing it down, first thing, no matter how terrified or disoriented you are, and you find out you're wrong. It's been a different dream each time. So you delve deeper, because maybe there's a common thread. It doesn't matter, you tell yourself, that dreamers often lie, so long as there's still some truth to be found.
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Dreamers Often Lie by R.S. Mason is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 United States License.
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