Is it my conscience telling me to do something with my life? Choose a path other than the easiest one for a change? A compromise becomes a little white lie, which becomes a deception, which becomes a way of life. Pretty soon, even I don’t know what is real and what is not.
Reality. One for my family whom I never see any more anyway, and when I do, they get this simple 2-dimensional version. One for work and friends, all casual, nothing deep. The moments with Junie feel most real. I mean the moments when we’re together, not talking. The talk with Junie is the worst bullshit of all. She knows it and I know it. We just need to give each other what we need, so we can forget the rest for a while. But then the moment is over, and I’m alone, and I think, was it real? Maybe I’m just being dramatic, but there’s this queasiness deep in my gut and strange sensation. I feel awake, but at the same time, I feel like I’m kind of in a bubble, unreal, like something is off.
Maybe it’s cause I’ve been meditating and reading about lucid dreams lately. Had a lot of intense ones, too. But so far, I haven’t been able to recognize a dream while I was still dreaming. Maybe this is the first time then. How can I know?
There are ways. The reality checks. Fingers: ten. Toes: 10. Where was I before; how did I get here? Junie’s. Touch my nipples, she said. Had to leave fast, out the back door, into the car. No time to put on shoes – hence my bare feet. Yes, yes, I rushed in and slammed the door. I remember.
Is this real, then? Clocks. They say dream clocks turn the other way or the numbers are screwed up or something. No, it looks normal. Unless, in the dream world, counter-clockwise is clockwise. But then how would I know? No, I’m pretty sure I know which way is clockwise. Am I awake then? And if I am awake, then what’s wrong? I don’t know, but something is off. What else was I supposed to check?
Mirrors. If the image is dark, blurry or deformed, it could be a dream. There’s a mirror at the end of the hall. Even from here, I can see something is different. It’s not empty, but it is not right. My face. Oh God, oh God. Don’t freak out. Breathe. That just means it is a dream. But no, because a single beam of light strikes the mirror blinding me, and now I do remember. The car chase. Junie’s husband. The slamming door. You fucked my wife, he said, then he shot right through the front door. Shot half my face off.
(Originally published in the Journal of Microliterature, Sept. 2013)
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