Young Writers Society

As soon as I open my eyes, I dash to my desk, rummaging though the homework worksheet and old post-it notes to find some paper. Any paper, even paper written in pencil in hope that I’d find a pen to overpower it. Now where is that pen? This wouldn’t happen if I were more organized and I realized where I put my things. But no time for a lecture, I simply needed a pen and paper before…dammit it happened again. I had a dream, a memorable dream, one filled of obscurity, character development, twisted plots and life-like climaxes. But it’s like that little clock in my brain expired. It’s too late. The figure-less dream emerged from my mind; all of a sudden but gradually by surprise. And no matter how hard I try, all day all week all my life I can never get it back. Its like that red balloon you get from the country fair. You try so hard to hold on to the string but its inevitable it will float away, high above the clouds.

So I prepare myself next time. Pen and pencil lined up and ready to go with a fresh pack of 200 lined pieces of paper. I gaze at the almost illuminating objects before I return to my slumber, reminding myself that these very simple machines will directly link my dreams from the subconscious world to my conscious one. Not only will I be able to recall my dream whenever I please, tell my friends that funny antidote but I can relive it with each descriptive word present. I can analyze what I was experiencing and how my dreams reflect my thoughts and attitudes conflicting my life. I can unravel and discover new and exciting elements, pieces of my character and put together my spirit. My dreams open up a creativity that I’m sometimes too scared to explore while I am awake. My ideas are no match for my dreams, boundaries breakers, over exaggerators, unbalanced and exploding with colours you can only see while you’re dreaming, ones that fill inside you at one glance and tingles your senses to the point where you don’t just see colour, you feel it. Against your skin, between your toes, running though your veins. You breath in the sun tan gold. Yes, to breath colour is an experience meant only for dreams.

Sometimes they aren’t that invigorating. Sometimes they are snap-shots. Black and white. Snapshots all randomly scattered on the blood stained floor. The order all mixed up but the story remains the same. The photo is so clear. The tiniest dirt fleck inside the Queen’s fingernail is so obvious that everyone is drying to hand her a bar of soap. Each intricate area is recognized and duplicated for future viewings. My dreams are broken down into black dots and the absence of black dots. One dot can be as noticeable as my cousin’s booger in the yearbook pictures but millions of dots are just enough to illustrate one human eyelash.

Without even trying I make a direct link between my life and my dreams. The closest description: déjà vu. I’ve seen this one before. Two girls walking gingerly towards the pond. It’s amazing how freakishly accurate I really am. Same purse, same hair colour, same number of freckles. If only I could grab the snapshot, freeze time and align the two together and play ‘find the differences’. Better yet, make both images translucent and overlap the two. No difference. An exact replica of my dream, animated in the real world. It only takes a split second. And then it’s gone. Back to the old unpredictable world that passes by too fast.

A McDonald’s restaurant that was totally crowded. Jason is there, or maybe its Janis. The rapid face change is always jerky and throws me off guard. There’s a long line up. I’m waiting for something and it’s not food. I’m feelings rushed. Can I drive that red Vette? How come I keep seeing the parking lot? Why do I zoom from the inside to the outside? Even with the pen and paper handy, I can’t recall any of these details until 12:47 pm and all that’s in front of me is a chemistry text book and my pencil just broke. Oh great, its quiz mode and I’m asked to put my book away. By the time I access the pen and or paper its gone. McDonald’s has vanished from my memory. It may or may not come back, with no better timing I suspect, but I’ll keep trying.

They are so beautiful, those dreams. I keep trying to catch them. Like butterflies, their beauty astounds me, I want to keep it, grab it and trap it with my net. But I’m not fast enough. Sometimes, on those lucky days, I focus all my energy and actually get one. I open up my dirt written hands and unfold a miracle between them. I guess they are meant to fly and roam in the world where they grow dreams. But that won’t stop me from collecting. Tonight, I sleep with my pen and paper.