Whose Life? Whose Dream?

“No, no…I can’t love you. I don’t love you. I wont love you. Who are you?”

I am walking over the city, out of a deserted bar. The building faces me. It is tall, sky-high above me…I am feeble. It‘s glassy frame shines off the rays of the all too bright sun. I see the light. It burns my eyes, but it makes me feel alive.

Where am I? Why is she talking to me? I haven’t talked to her in years. Gah, I miss her. I want to be with her. I want to look at her. She is unreachable, already past. Why?

“Oh shit, oh shit! What time is it? ”

It’s seven-thirty eight; my damn alarm never seems to rouse me from this deep sleep. And what the hell did I just dream?

I don’t have time for this! I put on my jeans, my fleece, my TOMs and I’m out the door. I find I have a coffee stain down the left side of my leg, must have lost some in transit. Oh well. I don’t have time to go back and change. I don’t have time!

The wind is chilly outside. I love the cold breeze that sweeps across my skin. My hair stands on end. I like the cold. It makes me feel alive. I park my car, open the squeaky door, grab a pen and spiral, and give the door a shove.

That slam is the beginning of my day.

I sit, inattentive, in class. The professor’s voice is monotone, uninteresting, and it sends me to dreams. And so, I dream.

I am no longer in a cramped, crowded room of a discontented professor and hung over students. I wander in and out of sleep and sleeplessness, nodding my head at each jolt of sound. My dreams perplex me with things I know not, people I love not, and wishes I have not.

It’s 9 o’clock. I am roused, I wake up, I see the people leaving. I am left. Class is over. I walk to the nearby coffee stand to get some caffeine in my system. Much better. But somehow, even the coffee tastes stale to me. The clock drones on. I wait for the next venture I will set out upon. Maybe that night. Hopefully that night.

I get back into the old car, its loose wheel is a familiar comfort to me; my music speaks my mood. I am anticipant. I drive home, to my shabby apartment, with dishes begging to be washed. And a carpet that tells me I’m lazy. I walk in. Roommate number one sits on the couch. I wonder to myself, what does he want with his life? What does he do during the day? Does he have dreams for himself, for his life? I don’t think long about it, for soon I am in the shower.

Oh! I love the cold water on my face, the streams of shampoo and soap running along my chilled body. I take cold showers everyday. It makes me feel alive.

This is my life. Everyday, I set out to feel alive, to know that I am really living. Sometimes, I wonder if I really am this person inside of my head, who I think I am. Am I? I can never be sure. That’s the trouble with it all. You really can’t ever know.

No time to think of these things, I saunter down to the small, messy kitchen. The tiles are raveling up and the counter is covered in neon stains of melted ice pops. Oh those ice pops seem to bring so much nostalgic fear to mind. The days of rollerblades and summer sweat down my curly black head, the days of YMCA sports and soccer moms. I miss those. Am I still the same? Who am I?

Pop. Pop. Pop. The bacon snaps at me as I set it in the hot pan, yum. I bite into a sandwich of nonsense- cheese, eggs, jalapeño, bacon, hot sauce, anything to get me going that dreary day. I love the feeling of the burning on my tongue and the spicy dread…makes me feel alive.

“Mac, we need that column. We need to proof read the entire thing! NOW!”

Who is this boss yelling at me? What does he want? Am I reporter these days? Seems I’ve landed a job in a desk and chair. It’s not so bad…the mundane quality of a day job, that is. It could be worse. But when did this happen? Where did the time go? The clock never ceases to tick. That little tick… a terrifying control over me.

I awake. It is 4o’clock in the afternoon. I have just taken my usual afternoon, college nap. This time I dreamt of myself as some sort of newspaper writer or something…what? I don’t remember much but that I felt pressured or something, pressured by time and the clock weighing heavy over my shoulders.

The pressure! I have a paper due at 5pm. I stumble to my computer. I frantically write the last few pages to a twenty-page paper over blah blah blah. I don’t even know what I just wrote. I email my half-assed paper to my boring teacher. Sent. ITUNES seems all too enticing; I need to wake myself up anyways for tonight. I turn on my favorite Beirut song entitled “Forks and Knives.” I mumble the words: “And I find it's all our waves and raves that makes the days go on this way…”

Maybe they’re right. But no matter. I hear voices downstairs. I always loved the commotion of the apartment after the sun went down. People seemed to be walking in and out, namely a friend that comes by each day. I always liked when she stopped in.

“Maccccccccccc!” she calls to me. I am happy. I hear the childishness in her voice.

I answer as I jog down the stairs, still mumbling the songs of my favorite band. She stops to tell me some event that has happened to her since I last saw her, twenty-four hours ago. It should be boring. But somehow, I am immediately engaged in what she has to say. She tells me about some dream she had involving a hippopotamus and a magic land. I believe in dreams, you know. Dreams make me feel alive.

Roommate number two enters. He sweats and pants from a day’s jog. You know, I really should exercise.

He, red in the face, asks her whether she is eating dinner with us tonight. I am cooking my specialty… pasta. I always seem to end up making pasta. I eat the same meal every night. Pasta. If it’s not pasta, it’s eggs. What a boring appetite I lead.

We always ask her to stay. I always hope she stays.

She seems to me, out of reach, distant, unattainable girl. She is young. I am old. She lives life for the next day. I live my life according to the second. I am unsure; she seems to know exactly what she wants. She leaves to fulfill some obligation or to study, something I can rarely find the motivation to do. She dreams of a job, a career, a life after this.

I dream of the next big thing. Will it come? And why does it tarry?

11pm rolls around. The night is dark and cold around me. There’s something promising about the night, maybe it’s the excitement or the mystery of it. I do not know what will come tonight. My night is just beginning.

A girl calls and just the phone call bores me. She wants me to go to some bar. Somehow, I feel as if something better might pass me by. I decide. I decline the invitation.

I knew it. Intuition led me right... SHE wants to go watch the trains, something utterly perfect sounding to me. It is cold, I grab a sweater and I am out the door.

She runs to the car in her girly form, red-nosed, red-cheeked from the windy night. Opening the door, she reveals a single sweet cigarette, flashing her giddy smile, the one that a child makes when feeling like a rebel. I am charmed.

We ride to the trains, not on them but to them since that’s all we can really do is watch. We sit. We listen. The noises of the metal are sharp and piercing, they clank the track and clink along. She smiles at the sounds of harsh metal and the buzzing, booming world in front of her. She props her soft body upon the nearby dumpster, tells me to join. I am lost. I am lost in the world of my dreams. She looks at me, wild eyes wide with innocent enthusiasm.

I AM alive.

I am living my dreams… that’s all we can do, isn't it?