Perchance to dream

A doctor closes his books. He looks about his small desk. It’s so full of books. I have so much more to read, so many books left to study. Yet his eyes starts to close, his mind becomes numb. He gets up from his desk and slumps into the bed. The soft pillow under his head and the warmth of the blanket sooth his troubled mind. He smells a strange scent; a scent or a memory of a scent. It reminds him of a day from his youth, a bright summer day. Is it summer now? Golden rays of morning sun from bright azure sky, a dirt road under a green canopy of trees, warm scent in the air.

The air is filled with a scent of Nostalgia. The Word-smith strolls in his workshop. He inhales deeply. On the hearth the embers emit a red glow. A single lamp burn on the table amid stacks of paper. The wick sips fuel of ideas from its heart and on the burner they burn into a flicker of cold white light. On the large window the wordsmith fitted a net to catch the dreams. Wind blows through the nets making a whooshing sound. The wordsmith looks around his workshop taking a last glance at the preparations. And then he lies down on his cot. By his head he puts the pen and the ink-pot and the papyrus scroll. He pulls out a line from his collection. A line formed of exquisite words.

“To sleep, perchance to dream.”

And he dreams on. In his dreams he is born with a new face, lives a different life and dreams a different dream.

‘I am a professional reactor. That means I react to things for a living.’

He speaks to the camera. Today he reacted to an old TV series from his childhood. Nostalgia came riding the east wind into his small apartment and with it came remembrance. He remembers his mother. It’s been a longtime since they last talked. Later when the day ages into night and sleep eludes him he drinks wine. He picks up the phone and calls home. Someone answers the phone. He asks for his mother.

’Sorry, who?’

Then he remembers. And he hangs up the phone. Finally he sleeps and perhaps dreams.

The wordsmith wakes up. The cold breeze of the dawn caresses his skin. Having burned out his last ideas the lamp stands extinguished. He picks up the pen and the papyrus scroll and starts to scribble the memories of dream-life. Dream-memories are fickle and they evaporate with the first ray of sun. It was a wonderful dream; such exquisite sorrow. He stares at the white page and it stares back. Like sands through fingers the memories slip through his mind. And tears trickle down his cheek. If in remembrance or in despair he can’t tell.

The doctor wakes up with dry tears on his cheek. He remembers a strange dream. They say there are many universes and in these many universes. They say we walk the earth in our dreams. On which earth do we walk when we dream? Is it this one or somewhere else?


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