Mr. Sandman brings me a dream

James Bowden

in memory of Rachel Sun

No actually, many dreams, more than I asked for!
I close my eyes
and darkness falls
upon the face of the deep.
Then, from it, a blip: a single ship.

I’m in some sort of class once again.
I’m being pick-me, once again.
A friend who’s more of an acquaintance
by now is sitting beside me, and I don’t know
what’s going on. I don’t know
why I am here. But I forget and soon enough
am flirting with the girl on my right, mercilessly,
and none of it means anything to me. I give this dream
a 3-star rating and narrow my metaphorical eyes at Mr. Sandman.

And so eventually, the clime changes. I’m no longer
in class, and the friends around me are no longer my
age. All of the older students I loved in college. And
a kiddie pool of sorts. And it’s fun and all and I forget
myself long enough to sink in to my old behaviors,
banter with the boys and splash sillily around the pool.
I find myself lounging in a chair when

Rachel shows up. Halfway through. And I’m not at
all prepared for it, though maybe I should be, given
her recent resurgence in my dreams. I sit and try to
pretend everything is normal and it kind of is. I should
specify which kind of normal it is: the kind wherein she
does not come over to the chair and giggle with me, but
smiles from afar. Seems to pay me little more mind than
anyone else around us. And I’m not damaged, I’m not, but
I find myself needing a breather and so around the block I
disappear. In this normal in which attention is not paid me
and I am not allowed to pay it her, I feel unsettled. I am
excluded from the bubble I want to be a part of. Namely,
that of her desire. Namely, that of her affection. I cannot deal.

And eventually I’m back and in the lounge chair and back
to the normal I’ve been granted. I’m not sure I’ve ever been
allowed a Rachel dream where we are still together. Perhaps
my brain rebels so strongly against this craved untruth that
stability becomes impossible, even for a dream-minute. And
I’ve never been lucid before, either: in dream or in real-life with her.
And everything is going normal still except my thoughts are a mess
particles everywhere a radioactive mess not unlike real life today
and at the end she walks up to me to ask if I am okay: I’ve been twitching
every time she says my name or refers to me, and it’s getting awkward
because everyone else is noticing it too. Fractures are beginning to
appear in the mock-air and I want to tell her something true. But
dream-me doesn’t know what to say. He: nothing more than a limp
avatar of my hidden desires and muted agency. It’s a wonder

I wake up though, and the sun is rising over Chicago. Orange on
the building skyline. What more is there to do? What can I ever
say?

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