It was a few drinks in and, lightweight that I am, the whole of the night was already starting to blur. I met a lot of people, talked to them a little bit. Some part of me always knew I would never remember them. Not really. By morning, when I'd be in a cafe drinking coffee until the headache went away, there would be a some faces--I'd remember a pretty girl with a blue shirt she wore on one shoulder, whose name I never did quite catch, or a guy who talked too much and told stories that I never quite thought were true. I'd remember telling all those stories, and why I only ever tell them when I've been drinking. I'd drink coffee and smile at the waitress and leave her a poem, because--as the morning would so poignantly remind me--I only do things like that for people who are bound to forget me.
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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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