There I lay, remembering that I have the same dream every night, but not remembering what it is.
There I think, thinking that perhaps I'll remember what the dream is tomorrow.
There I wonder, will I wake up if I remember what this dream is?
My name; I've forgotten it a long while ago.
My goals; even longer ago.
My life; I couldn't even begin to fathom.
Love; what is that?
Color; what is that?
I have my house, my job, the face of my enemy, and a dream. The only color that can be seen by my eyes is the dead leaf color of the sky. The strange, dead, orange color strongly associated with autumn. This color appears only in the sky, until night falls. The only sounds I can hear are such sounds as people walking, the honking of horns, the barking of dogs, but never the sound of another human voice but my own. A couple drinks to ease the pain of my incapability of feeling it, but it'll be back tomorrow morning... when I awake from that dream.
Living is easy, and very simple, in this communist shoebox of a coastal town. I simply go to work and come home. My only entertainment in this place is that of books, seeing as most music, movies, and other such things are plainly pointless without voice. I check the mailbox every day, but never receive a thing but my bills, and fines for smoking in non-smoking restaurants. Sometimes, I walk on the beach, to attempt at appreciating a sunset that cannot even be seen the same way by me. Even though I can't see it, I'll smoke a pack of Trons and watch it anyway, maybe bring some scotch for false enhancement. Living is easy, and very simple, but so hard to endure... why?
You could say there are people in this world, I suppose. There are mannequins like those in the windows of stores, walking up and down the street all day and night. They all wear the same outfit, and hardly ever glance at each other, much less speak. All carry old-fashioned suitcases with a strange emblem over the buckle, the kind you stereotype businessmen with. Shiny, vinyl, leather suits are their apparel of choice, contrasting with their pasty plastic skin. Their mouths look like they had never opened before, as if someone had pasted it closed to remove ability to speak. After you live in this world for as long as I have, however long it has been, you learn to never look them in the eyes. Were these humane people? How am I different from them? How do they even know what to do if they don't speak? Why? There is no science to tell why, or how, any of this is the way that it is.
Looking them in the eyes is like a reflection. A reflection of every bit of indifference you may have clustered up inside of you, if you have anything but indifference after all these years. That is, to say, that indifference is fluff that gathers inside of you... rather than a lacking of it. Perhaps I know I'm indifferent now, just like them, but I still believe in something more. This, all of this, it has to be a dream. Perhaps a dream that I will never wake up from, but it is a dream. If this is not a dream, then I wouldn't be alive now. I endure, I live, I continue, because there is something more. I can feel the life boiling inside of me, but why can't it reveal itself?
When I walk to work, the only sounds I hear are those of cars passing by me and the footsteps of mannequins. My job is one with no income, the mannequins give me paychecks, I deposit them, I collect money but only spend it on food and books. There's no point in any entertainment but books. Books are my only proof that this terrible place was once a colorful place, with life and color in many people all around. This is why I have no income, there's nothing to spend money on.
This lifelessness is contagious, I see it even in myself. Now, whenever I look in the mirror, I see the face of someone I recognize but cannot comprehend. Bland, glazed over green eyes with sockets under them, lips like a cracked desert, and those scars on my forehead. I may not recall what it looked like once, but I believe that there was a time when I could look in the mirror and comprehend the person... not just recognize.
Through all of this, I can still feel something. There's a few things in my room, most are secured by a safe in my closet. In this safe, there are 4 pictures, a gun, ammunition, a notebook, a contract with a thumbprint on the bottom, and 2 pieces of paper with notes written on them. One note is a list, it consists of:
"My name;
My life;
My goals;
Love;
Color;"
The other note reads," Indigo, the dream that landed in the darkness of silence. The light that briefly spilled on my cheeks." I've read this many times, and recite it throughout the day ritualistically. You could say I'm waiting, waiting for something to happen one time when I recite.
Why... I wonder... There's no proof that it will ever do anything, somehow I just know. Every night I dream of the past, of my life, of everything I want to know. I know that this happens... somehow. But, I can never recall any memories when I am conscious throughout the day. Why... I wonder... just what have I forgotten?
Everything, I know that, I've forgotten everything, all I know now is this cold, black and white world. I walk to work every day and I see the all too familiar faces in this oversized communist shoebox that I live in. What the hell is this? Why can't I even remember my past? Surely, important things happened to me at one point, right? Why?
The key is the dream, that has to be it, it has to be in the dream. That dream, just what happens in it? Somehow, I know that its linked to those 4 pictures, gun, ammunition, notebook, contract, and 2 notes. Happiness, depression, hatred, love, giving-a-shit, all just words and terms to me... but they can mean something.
Ignore my thoughts of color, ignore this vast world that I've been placed in, my curiousities... sleeping is my only hope for freedom from this nightmare, and it must be done every night if I am to ever escape.
This world is colorless, everything in black and white... the people, the actions of the people, the world itself, the ocean, the trees, everything is either dead or just black and white. The sky is that dead, autumn orange, that's the only color I've ever seen... everything else is simply colorless. If you focus on something without blinking and really think about its value in life, you'll see it begin to gain color. Although, life can only be given to any organism in this world by focusing on it and how it may have life. This is why I'm dreaming, this is why there cannot be life in this world. I still think that there isn't life in this world, that the idea of life other than myself is simply an illusion. But I still believe that there is something more.
I don't know how long I've been waiting... but tomorrow is the day, tomorrow I'll change it.
There I lay, remembering that I have the same dream every night, but not remembering what it is.
There I think, thinking that perhaps I'll remember what the dream is tomorrow.
There I wonder, will I wake up if I remember what this dream is?
There I awake, remembering everything for a moment. I'll come prepared and I'll kill you someday... you bastard... Soon I'll forget everything; my past, my upbringing, the friends I may have had, the moment everything had color...
Everything.
