You are in love, but it is a liar’s love. It is a love predicated on a lie so great that it is a polluted love, the sort that has you worry that you have contaminated those around you without their knowing; you are constantly in fear that you have tainted its meaning for others, should they learn of your deception. The Dream Eclipse is tomorrow, and she believes that you will be with her for it.
You were not attracted to her, not at first. When you met her you thought little of her, and your interactions with her were tedious, strenuous to submit to fully, so much so that you would let your mind wander in between her breaths. But she asked you questions that you had not been asked before, and told you things she had never told before. Now she is your archetype of beauty, has erased generations of habit and familiarity. You do not believe you felt this way before, but then, you have felt that before as well. A shadow looms behind everything that you share with her. Stories and recollections bend to it; tears hide additional layers, laughs taste metal on your lips, rancid. You goals and aspirations are hollow, your ideas empty. Because though everything about you is real, though you experience and feel and exist, you feel as though you are only half of yourself, the other of which you knew you had, but cannot recall having. The Dream Eclipse does not affect you—you cannot sleep. You do not remember when you first encountered it, but you know that this has always been the case. Those around you sleep, and there is no way to know for how long, and if not for you, how much time has passed. To them, you are only a frame of reference. You have become the bearer of time, and have forfeited your right to it as well. You do not know why. You know these things because you are not alone in your curse. Once, many eclipses ago, you met a man—or something resembling a man—that called he/itself Ponsviri. You met in a forest, far away from other people, near a burning campfire. Ponsviri looked as if an artist’s rendering of a human, that of an unskilled one, perhaps even one who had never met a human and had only had one described to them. They were jagged at the edges, their skin fading in tone; they looked as they had been inserted into the world almost accident, so that when they walked they warped the air around them. Ponsviri told you that they too, could not sleep, did not believe they ever would— that they had seen many more eclipses than even you. They told you other things as well. You spoke for a long time, and you shared with them things that could never be shared with others. You remember it felt like you were flying. But they did not hate themselves for not sleeping, as you did. They hated the Eclipse. Told you that people spent their whole lives preparing to dream, trying to see and hear and feel what pleases them, that they might inhabit such worlds upon their slumber. You were told that they are foolish, trapped in loops, that in their dreams they behave the same and wake with confusion, unsure of they inhabit the Dream or have just departed it. This you know; you have seen it too. Even she tells you that where she is from, the Dream Eclipse is well known and even understood. She believes that if the two of you do everything together, see and hear the same things, walk the same roads, then you will share the dream. You are not sure if this is true or not. But you smile at her, and say that that sounds right, that you have heard that before. You have known this for a long time now, and have told no one else. And yet you interact. You take part in the day, and develop relationships. You learn new things, work and rest, a normal rest. You fall in love. They fall asleep. You leave, and watch the moon as you go. You have spent whole lifetimes among groups of people and felt as though a tourist for their entirety. Even now, with her, you cannot reconcile that her love for you is merely love for those whose names and experiences you have adopted. You are an impostor who has assumed the role of yourself; you feel detached, splintered, as though you exist between worlds. You feel now inside how Ponsviri looked to you in the flesh—indeed, you sometimes wonder if that is how you look, and you cannot see it. You think of Ponsviri often. When you left them you said you would return and learn more, but when you went back, they were gone. There is now no one who understands you. Only you know what happens when the Dream Eclipse comes, and what comes after. You understand their excitement, for though they lose their minds to the Eclipse as Ponsviri said, they will not be aware of it. You understand that it is only terrible to you because you retain everything—you accepted that a long time ago. But it has isolated you. Before, you tried to tell others of the truth of the Dream, but they did not understand it; what you spoke of was impossible to them. There was no way to show them. Some places you left of your own accord. Others, you were cast out. Yet no matter what, you know what lies in store, always. This knowledge is worse than the curse itself. It bleeds into every moment, corrupts it. You taste it with every meal, hear it in the soft trickling of water. When you talk to others about the Dream Eclipse, you inhabit someone new, adopt a mask and tell of dreams you have not had. It burns your skin to do so. Even when you have convinced yourself, the burning remains. Often, your body knows your guilt more than your mind. Guilt has become a language to you now. You understand its intricacies and nuances, can use it to express yourself uniquely. You can distinguish between those who speak it naturally from those who have adopted it, though you are the latter. The guilt is so immense and layered that you can reduce it to individual components. It is at its surface level shame, for your lies. Underneath that it is fear that if you express it, you will award it more power. At its most base, it is regret, for you often contemplate simple choices, sometimes single words even, and wonder how different things might be. You tell yourself that guilt is thus a guide, and that that you have learned; that next time will be different. Yet what you have learned has not changed anything, not yet. You tell yourself that it will next time—tell yourself this even as it does not happen. Next time, next home, next love. It will be different. The Dream Eclipse is but hours away, and she wants to take a walk around the garden that you used to walk with her in when you’d first met. She is excited, but also nervous. For all that she believes she knows of the dream, she has not had one before. She wonders what will happen to the flowers while everyone dreams; wonder if maybe they dream as well, as the animals do. This you know for sure is not true. The flowers wither and die, you have seen it—have wandered so long you have even seen the flowers of which she speaks shrivel and fade. The red and patterned gold turn to pink and amber, then to grey and grey. You do not tell her this. Instead you take her hand and walk with her, as long as she likes. There are times—rare, fleeting moments—where you do not forget that you cannot sleep, but where you are intrigued by it. You consider that you may not be different, that perhaps your struggle is normal. Perhaps you do sleep, and do not realize it. Perhaps you do dream, and your dreams are always of the next place, of the next love. Perhaps all those around you realize this and accept it, and only you fixate. But then you remember Ponsviri. Remember how they explained to you things you eventually came to see, how they knew things they could not have known unless they too, did not sleep. You are unsure how you feel about Ponsviri now. They are how you know that you are not insane, and yet, you sometimes wish that you did not know that. Sometimes, you wish you could go back to not understanding. When you could not sleep, you pitied yourself. Now you know what the Dream is for others, and that you cannot stop it. That is how guilt came to be, and hate. That is when love began to sour, when it became a disease that you spread, rather than a warmth that your brought with you. Now, you have grown tired of loving others. You have tethered the joy it brings to the sadness of its end. It is for you a clock that winds down over each of their heads, that which reduces them to the closest thing to sleep that you can perceive. It is not always romantic love. Any feeling—all of them—exhausts you for this reason. Your awareness of the end corrupts every beginning. You have tried to stop loving before, but are not strong enough. That is your second curse. The Dream Eclipse is but minutes away. You are sideways next to her. She is looking at you, and you are looking through her, out the window, where the last sliver of moonlight hangs absurdly in the sky, like an irradiant fishhook luring its prey. She says something that you don’t hear, and you nod, and smile. She touches your face, and you reciprocate automatically. And then she begins to blink, and you tell her your last lie—you blink with her. Slowly, you watch the Dream take her; a smile plays on her lips as she takes her first step into a nascent world, a you-less world. You are thinking of Ponsiviri. You wonder if they are alone tonight, or if they are lying. The darkness ends its crawl now, victorious. You can see her sleeping face now only with your hand. You consider waiting. You truly do, you think of all eternity and wonder if it’s better spent waiting here or wandering there. And then, you leave.
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About MeVekin87 is the author of the Albus Potter Series, a 7-book continuation of the J.K Rowling's Harry Potter books. The Things I Write While You're Asleep |
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