Dreams (1)

I've been dreaming. I haven’t consistently remembered a dream in almost a year. I usually lie to people about it. But I've had dreams that I’m remembering.

Last night I was a child on a playground, with a group of other people I knew, all as children. We were playing games when a guy with a big orange truck came. He cleaned the back of his truck out with a hose because it was full of mud. Then he said he’d give us a ride. But not everyone could fit in the cab because we had become ourselves again, so I sat in the back of the truck, lay down and wrapped myself in an orange towel, to blend in. We drove to a prison and were given a tour. All the men had long faces, and sat facing away from us. It was silent. They opened the gate for us to leave but there were complications with getting out. I had gotten back in the truck to wrap myself up in the towel in the back, but a prisoner had gotten out and was trying to steal the truck. He wrapped cords around my neck and tried to choke me. I was crying. Calling for help. Fighting him. I grabbed his face, pulled at it, and made it longer. He was a monster. I climbed on top of him and beat him, but his body offered no resistance, as if he didn't have any bones. I punched him until I could breathe, and finally someone I knew came out to help me. His name is Eric. He pulled the cords off my neck and I went back inside sat in a dark corner. I was afraid my face was getting longer, stretching off my bones so I wouldn't need bones. I kept feeling the bones in my hands, which were covered in blood. As I sat there, the scene changed. I was with the same people but we were in a school, teaching children from the Amazon. Eric pulled at his hair (a habit he has in real life) pushing it up and out, away from his face, in a mane. He reminds me of a dark lion, but he is kind. The children sit around us and talk, and he smiles and touches my hand. We teach the children about kindness, like Vonnegut, "Hello babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. On the outside, babies, you've got a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies- God damn it, you've got to be kind.” They say writing and reading is impossible in dreams, but I swear I can do both. Words are clear and strong. Images shake. Colors morph and fold. My mind is a narrator, whoever the voice in my head belongs to. The children sing and color and we smile. Eric looks at me again and touches my hand.