Eno Suibon
03-31-2010, 11:55 PM
Kind of surreal, kind of random. Started yesterday with an idea in my head, and I just sort of let it flow from there. Not sure what to call it. I'd love to hear some thoughts on it, though.
=====
In my hands, a magazine. A spreadsheet of pictures and words, uninteresting drivel. But where am I? How did I get here? I glanced around. A store. An ordinary store, no less. In front of me, a shelf filled with magazines. Behind, a row of stationary. I recognized this place. Vaguely. But no one was there. Silence all around.
“Where am I?” I finally muttered to myself, as if there was someone who could hear me.
“A dream,” a voice from my side. I turned to look. A girl. Long black hair, long black dress, barefoot. Beautiful. I could feel the magazine fall to the floor as her eyes met mine. A dead gaze, almost … frightening, yet I couldn’t look away. Then this mischievous smile as she turned her back to me and began walking.
I followed, slow at first, and then faster. But I couldn’t catch her. Running through the endless myriad of shelves and aisles, always just a few steps ahead of me. I lost sight of her for just a second. And then suddenly, activity. The store was filled with people, as if the silence had never existed. I searched for her. More frantically than I had before. Aisles filled with people, I turned them around. I asked where she went. They gave no reply. A thousand faces, but I couldn’t see her in any of them. More frantic, and then, just as I wanted to give up, I turned a corner to see her in the distance, standing alone. And again, all the other noise faded into nothing. An evil smirk covered her face. She was aiming a firearm at me, and yet her smile terrified me more than the gun.
“Aren’t you scared?” her voice was like ice.
“I’m not dreaming.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I would know if I was dreaming. I’m not.”
“Wake up, then.”
“What?”
“I said WAKE UP!” her scream trembled like thunder.
Then, a train. The inside of a moving train. My face in the opposite window, reflected off the darkness outside. I reached behind my back, to make sure my guitar was still there. Then I just sat for a little bit, thinking about the world I just came back from. Opposite me and a few seats distant, I noticed an unkempt man who seemed to be staring at me quite intently. No one else was in the car.
“What?” I asked bluntly.
“You talk in your sleep.”
“Oh, shut the **** up, old man,” I replied, rubbing my head and covering my eyes so I could go back to my thinking.
I continued to indulge my thoughts for about a minute before I heard, “East Weston Station. Northbound.” The robotic voice of the train reminded me of her, somehow. And I smiled, before realizing that being at Weston meant I had missed my stop.
“Dammit,” I muttered, grabbing my guitar and making my way out of there. Down the stairs of the poorly lit station, into the streets below. The city felt distant. It was always like this late at night. The only sound was the wind, the only illumination was scattered street lights. Occasionally a car would drive past, breaking the routine, but everything was almost … hauntingly silent. If I wasn’t so familiar with the streets, I might have thought I was still dreaming.
Soon, I could hear water, the river, which meant I was close. Into an alleyway, the city became even darker. And echoing in it’s winding passages, the sound of a distant violin. Quiet at first, getting louder as I moved closer. It was a beautiful melody, I had to close my eyes and simply appreciate it for a few moments, before I continued moving. Eventually I found my way out in the open again. I could see her, sitting at the edge of the river, beneath the bridge where we always met this time of night. She was playing her violin with this sort of beautiful calmness, without a care in the world.
I tried to sneak up on her, moving as quietly as I could. A misplaced note, then silence, and I knew I’d been discovered. Her calmness evaporated, and she shot a glare at me with the quickness of a snake. Her long, black hair glistened against the distant glow of the city. She was beautiful.
“You’re late,” she said tersely, putting the violin aside as she returned to a state of placidity.
I made my way to her, putting a hand through her hair and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, “Sorry about that. … Hey, can I see your gun real fast?”
She gave me this adorable look of open-jawed confusion, then shrugged, pulled out her firearm and handed it to me, “Don’t break it.”
I just gave her a sly smile, before plopping myself next to her and fiddling with it a little, “Weird, a revolver.”
“What’s weird about that? I always carry a revolver.”
“Yeah, but … I had a dream about you.”
She laughed, “Was I trying to shoot you?”
“Something like that, except you had a semi-automatic.”
“Oh, you mean like this?”
She picked up something at her side, revealing a gun exactly like the one she had in my dream.
“Holy ****!” I exclaimed, backing away from her a little. She just laughed at me some more.
“Seriously? It’s a 1911, most famous handgun in the world. Don’t be so silly,” she was still laughing.
“Meanie,” I made my way back next to her, “you didn’t always have a 1911.”
“So?”
“Well, I think it’s time for you to admit that dreams can tell the future sometimes.”
“Oh you,” she laughed, giving my arm a light slap, “dreams can’t tell the future. You probably just saw it lying around my place last time you were there. Besides, you have weird dreams all the time.”
“Hey! How do you know about my dreams?”
“You talk in your sleep. Like, a lot.”
“Man, why am I just finding out about this tonight?”
“Haha.”
“But seriously … don’t you ever want to think that there’s, I dunno, more to the world than meets the eye?”
“The world I see is enough for me, thanks. Precognition, clairvoyance, angels and ****, there’s enough of that in you for the both of us, I think.”
“But come on, it has to mean something, right?”
“Of course. Dreams always mean something, but they mean whatever meaning we want to give them. They’re a representation of our internal thoughts and desires, not something that can tell us the future.”
“So what do you think my dream meant?”
“I dunno, you haven’t told me what it was about yet.”
“Well … I was in this … place, like a supermarket. And it was quiet, there was no one there. And I asked myself, ‘where am I?’ and you told me I was dreaming. I saw you, just as amazing as you are here. But I couldn’t recognize you, it was like I‘d never met you. And before I could ask who you were, you ran away. So I followed you, but you were gone before I could catch you. Then all the people came back, but I didn’t care about them, I just wanted to find you again. And when I did, you were alone, aiming that gun at me. I told you, ‘I’m not dreaming,’ but you wouldn’t let me believe it. And you shouted ‘wake up!’ until I finally did. Kind of a weird dream I guess.”
She snuggled up close to me, placed her hand on my cheek and just said, “Awww, I don’t think that’s weird. Kind of cute if you ask me. I’m the voice of rationality in your life. And I’ll do anything to prove I’m right, even if it kills me.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Of course. My dream self had to kill herself when she woke you up. Didn’t you think of that?”
“Huh. I guess I didn’t.”
“So what’s your take on the dream?”
“I want to say, but … I don’t think I can put it into words. Let me tell you with my guitar.”
“Finally, something we can agree on,” she said as she picked up her violin and bow, “I’ll chime in when I think you’ve finished.”
I took out my guitar, and slowly began to turn thoughts into sounds. A new melody resonating from my instrument, one that I’d never heard or played before, as if to tell a story. And then, just as I felt my story was finished, the beautiful sound of a violin next to me, as if to ask a question…
=====
In my hands, a magazine. A spreadsheet of pictures and words, uninteresting drivel. But where am I? How did I get here? I glanced around. A store. An ordinary store, no less. In front of me, a shelf filled with magazines. Behind, a row of stationary. I recognized this place. Vaguely. But no one was there. Silence all around.
“Where am I?” I finally muttered to myself, as if there was someone who could hear me.
“A dream,” a voice from my side. I turned to look. A girl. Long black hair, long black dress, barefoot. Beautiful. I could feel the magazine fall to the floor as her eyes met mine. A dead gaze, almost … frightening, yet I couldn’t look away. Then this mischievous smile as she turned her back to me and began walking.
I followed, slow at first, and then faster. But I couldn’t catch her. Running through the endless myriad of shelves and aisles, always just a few steps ahead of me. I lost sight of her for just a second. And then suddenly, activity. The store was filled with people, as if the silence had never existed. I searched for her. More frantically than I had before. Aisles filled with people, I turned them around. I asked where she went. They gave no reply. A thousand faces, but I couldn’t see her in any of them. More frantic, and then, just as I wanted to give up, I turned a corner to see her in the distance, standing alone. And again, all the other noise faded into nothing. An evil smirk covered her face. She was aiming a firearm at me, and yet her smile terrified me more than the gun.
“Aren’t you scared?” her voice was like ice.
“I’m not dreaming.”
“Yes, you are.”
“I would know if I was dreaming. I’m not.”
“Wake up, then.”
“What?”
“I said WAKE UP!” her scream trembled like thunder.
Then, a train. The inside of a moving train. My face in the opposite window, reflected off the darkness outside. I reached behind my back, to make sure my guitar was still there. Then I just sat for a little bit, thinking about the world I just came back from. Opposite me and a few seats distant, I noticed an unkempt man who seemed to be staring at me quite intently. No one else was in the car.
“What?” I asked bluntly.
“You talk in your sleep.”
“Oh, shut the **** up, old man,” I replied, rubbing my head and covering my eyes so I could go back to my thinking.
I continued to indulge my thoughts for about a minute before I heard, “East Weston Station. Northbound.” The robotic voice of the train reminded me of her, somehow. And I smiled, before realizing that being at Weston meant I had missed my stop.
“Dammit,” I muttered, grabbing my guitar and making my way out of there. Down the stairs of the poorly lit station, into the streets below. The city felt distant. It was always like this late at night. The only sound was the wind, the only illumination was scattered street lights. Occasionally a car would drive past, breaking the routine, but everything was almost … hauntingly silent. If I wasn’t so familiar with the streets, I might have thought I was still dreaming.
Soon, I could hear water, the river, which meant I was close. Into an alleyway, the city became even darker. And echoing in it’s winding passages, the sound of a distant violin. Quiet at first, getting louder as I moved closer. It was a beautiful melody, I had to close my eyes and simply appreciate it for a few moments, before I continued moving. Eventually I found my way out in the open again. I could see her, sitting at the edge of the river, beneath the bridge where we always met this time of night. She was playing her violin with this sort of beautiful calmness, without a care in the world.
I tried to sneak up on her, moving as quietly as I could. A misplaced note, then silence, and I knew I’d been discovered. Her calmness evaporated, and she shot a glare at me with the quickness of a snake. Her long, black hair glistened against the distant glow of the city. She was beautiful.
“You’re late,” she said tersely, putting the violin aside as she returned to a state of placidity.
I made my way to her, putting a hand through her hair and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, “Sorry about that. … Hey, can I see your gun real fast?”
She gave me this adorable look of open-jawed confusion, then shrugged, pulled out her firearm and handed it to me, “Don’t break it.”
I just gave her a sly smile, before plopping myself next to her and fiddling with it a little, “Weird, a revolver.”
“What’s weird about that? I always carry a revolver.”
“Yeah, but … I had a dream about you.”
She laughed, “Was I trying to shoot you?”
“Something like that, except you had a semi-automatic.”
“Oh, you mean like this?”
She picked up something at her side, revealing a gun exactly like the one she had in my dream.
“Holy ****!” I exclaimed, backing away from her a little. She just laughed at me some more.
“Seriously? It’s a 1911, most famous handgun in the world. Don’t be so silly,” she was still laughing.
“Meanie,” I made my way back next to her, “you didn’t always have a 1911.”
“So?”
“Well, I think it’s time for you to admit that dreams can tell the future sometimes.”
“Oh you,” she laughed, giving my arm a light slap, “dreams can’t tell the future. You probably just saw it lying around my place last time you were there. Besides, you have weird dreams all the time.”
“Hey! How do you know about my dreams?”
“You talk in your sleep. Like, a lot.”
“Man, why am I just finding out about this tonight?”
“Haha.”
“But seriously … don’t you ever want to think that there’s, I dunno, more to the world than meets the eye?”
“The world I see is enough for me, thanks. Precognition, clairvoyance, angels and ****, there’s enough of that in you for the both of us, I think.”
“But come on, it has to mean something, right?”
“Of course. Dreams always mean something, but they mean whatever meaning we want to give them. They’re a representation of our internal thoughts and desires, not something that can tell us the future.”
“So what do you think my dream meant?”
“I dunno, you haven’t told me what it was about yet.”
“Well … I was in this … place, like a supermarket. And it was quiet, there was no one there. And I asked myself, ‘where am I?’ and you told me I was dreaming. I saw you, just as amazing as you are here. But I couldn’t recognize you, it was like I‘d never met you. And before I could ask who you were, you ran away. So I followed you, but you were gone before I could catch you. Then all the people came back, but I didn’t care about them, I just wanted to find you again. And when I did, you were alone, aiming that gun at me. I told you, ‘I’m not dreaming,’ but you wouldn’t let me believe it. And you shouted ‘wake up!’ until I finally did. Kind of a weird dream I guess.”
She snuggled up close to me, placed her hand on my cheek and just said, “Awww, I don’t think that’s weird. Kind of cute if you ask me. I’m the voice of rationality in your life. And I’ll do anything to prove I’m right, even if it kills me.”
“Even if it kills you?”
“Of course. My dream self had to kill herself when she woke you up. Didn’t you think of that?”
“Huh. I guess I didn’t.”
“So what’s your take on the dream?”
“I want to say, but … I don’t think I can put it into words. Let me tell you with my guitar.”
“Finally, something we can agree on,” she said as she picked up her violin and bow, “I’ll chime in when I think you’ve finished.”
I took out my guitar, and slowly began to turn thoughts into sounds. A new melody resonating from my instrument, one that I’d never heard or played before, as if to tell a story. And then, just as I felt my story was finished, the beautiful sound of a violin next to me, as if to ask a question…