I HAVE A DREAM II

A conversation between myself

“Sixteen thousand two hundred and eighty-eight words!” I announce to the hallway on my way to the bathroom.

I meet the mirror and gasp at the sight. My face is a horror—far worse than before. I turn side to side, examining the sunken places where its begun to crumble and cave.

“Only fifty-three thousand seven hundred and twelve to go,” The lips reply, parting with difficulty—dry and cracked.

I gaze into the hollows where my eyes used to be. “When did this happen?”

“It’s a gift, isn’t it?” The pallid skin stretches and strains over an unfamiliar skull. “To have such a dream?” The sound is tender, admiring—like the whisper one utters when a baby is sleeping.

“I suppose…” I reply. “But what about living?”

“Living?” A laugh. “We’re writing a novel—we live on the inside.”

“Yes, of course…but is it really the same? We write sun ups and sun downs, we make people and places, and still, every day is identical: sitting, rotting, and writing, dragging flesh from room to room, wafting upstairs and down—”

“Sounds like freedom to me.”

“Is it free to be bound? To be locked in a mind? To be fused with a cage? To be stuck to a chair?

“Are we stuck to a chair?”

I look through the window at the swing-dancing trees in their verdant stoles and ballgowns of bark. The sun showers over their heads like the spray of champagne, and the breeze—oh, the breeze—I imagine its touch...

“No, but…”

“Just go on outside if you’re in so much pain!”

“Well, I don’t wanna be hasty…” I rub at my arms, and the flesh comes away. “Is that normal? The flesh…?”

“It is, don’t you worry.”

“Okay, good…you were saying?” I lick the pad of my thumb and try to smooth the skin down. It curls back like a ribbon made alive with a blade.

“I said ‘go on outside’—what’s the harm in a stroll? Thirty minutes or so with the light on your face…”

“Well, I’m expecting a call…”

“A call?”

“Yes, from God.”

“From God?”

“Yes, a call.” I pull hairs from my head and wind a game of Cat’s Cradle. Over and under and under and over. “I’m awaiting the word—it’s important I stay. It comes when it comes, then I write it all down. If it comes when I’m gone…then there’s real hell to pay.”

“I see,” the mouth murmurs. “You must be quite busy.”

“I am actually—very.” A tear slips down my cheek and finds its way to my tongue. The salt is a treat—I haven’t eaten in eons.

A waggle of fingers, like pale fence posts at night. “Well, I’ll see you again soon—perhaps the next time we shower?”

Ah yes, another practice that has long been abandoned, like tidying for visitors or having visitors at all.

“Of course, it’s a date.” I turn on my heels, then pause, looking back. “It’s a gift, isn’t it? To have such a dream?”

“It’s a gift, it is. To have such a dream.”

“It’s a gift—yes—a gift to have such a dream.”

The Penitent Magdalen - Georges de La Tour (1593–1652)