He woke from the dream. A terrible night. In his dream people died, the oceans were full of plastic, and men shot rhino’s to cut off their horns. In his dreams people possessed each other. They owned each other. He saw it clearly: a woman wearing cloth over her face, as a man punched a fist into the air, the other hand holding a rifle. Just before waking, he’d been curled into a ball, hands protecting his face, as they’d beat and kicked him. He’d woken with a headache. Invalidated once again.
The people didn’t want him to right the wrongs it would seem. He was on his own again in this battlefield of games. The love holding him down, never setting him free. Their denial and confusion so pervasive.
Each morning, after waking from his dreams, he’d enter a world much worse. The dreams were nightmares for sure, and yet the real world, was no relief at all.
‘You’re just being maudlin again’ he reminded himself as he prepared for the day ahead.
He knew not to turn on the news, he knew the ‘hearing devices’ weren’t working. They weren’t making it sound any better. The mad hysteria and manic behaviour of the children he noticed, didn’t get any clearer with his ‘ears in,’ it just made it all the more obvious how insane they’d all become.
Men in their thirties and women in their fifties acting like they were five. He’d had more stimulation from the mind of a five year old. A five year old that wasn’t afraid that is. He enjoyed the will of this child as he understood its need. With a handicap – as such – of being young, naive and small, children’s compensatory-will was a beauty to behold and encourage.
When the adults played the same way it made him want to weep.
The fear comes later you see. The pressure to conform, to work, to pay bills, to spend their lives doing what they hate; drinking to numb the horror of their wasted lives. A lifetime as a child.
‘That’s better!’ they’ll say, with a smack of the lips.
We all know what to do though: consume, consume, consume. There’s no one to show us how to be grown anymore. Those in charge are as the child. Juvenile leaders of the world. Just remember:
“My buttons bigger than yours”
“You cannot have if you do not pray”
There were those who thought relief for this man would come in death.
Running into the thunderstorm, powder washed from his face. So many think suicide a painless release from this waking hell. Though suicide would only add to the confusion, pain and guilt, of those left behind. Trapped. Trapped for now.
Besides, he knew all this suffering and violence, couldn’t be real, could it? He knew the troubles of the world couldn’t be as his dreams showed him, could they? He knew that humans couldn’t be so unaware, are they? So unaware of punching and kicking him everyday. He’d curl up in a ball, protecting his face, and die one day he knew.
As night time comes around, the nightmares are here; headaches the following morning. Invalidating his illusions yet again.
The punches and kicks may be silent in dreams my friends, but they hurt, just the same.