Here I go back to sleep, dream and dread I shall wake up rich and that I shall forget I was not before I began dreaming.
One bird, identified by a decaying knowledge gathered from the few books I was allowed to read from my uncle’s stash as an oriole, hammers a nail in my brain; so soft are its strokes that I cannot use ‘into’.
I have been a collector of used wristwatches once. I converted it into a small-time trade and failed to do so. I owned one Orient SK Crystal that would run only if you jerk it before your arm embraces its cold steel bracelet. The shakes must be gentle, failing which the watch would stop. The bird shakes my state of mind.
There is one lottery shop in my neighborhood. I stroll toward it, glance at the display tray and pick a number in my mind and pass without buying the ticket or slowing down.
How many man-hours do you dream? My psychiatrist asked. That depends. In some dreams, I am not much of a man. In some, I cease to be human at all.
I can enumerate the amount I spend on dreaming. The math involved is like the equation of calculating the probable worth of a victim of an accident.
I have been writing a letter to all my friends and acquaintances courting for a job, even or odd, donation even. I shy away from drafting the same to finality.
There. You can hear the passerine. The same bird flew over your balcony, the cremation pyre, riverboat roof, and the dumpster fire. Its flight sews the past, present, and those street lamps.
My wife has the rear end of a pencil in her mouth. She bites on the next ingredient for a dish made with dreams. Until now, it has only one – dreams.
Illustration Nick Victor