It’s a dream…only a dream

The following story attempts to paint a metaphor for the ways humans attempt to sooth their suffering through dreams and self-induced stupor.

I had walked down that road a thousand times. It was a way out. A track to another life, another face of reality.

I always started at the dead end and worked my way down to the beginning. Or maybe it was the other way around. In my dream, I would trek through a grove of trees and alight upon this dirt road. The clay which bonded the road together was a symphony of browns and oranges. Intermixed in the dirt were the dark grays and whites of the rocks which jutted up from the underbelly of the crust.

It was a steep hill to flatlanders, but, to me, it was a gentle slope. Tight beside the road were the working man’s dreams wrapped up in tar paper and fake brick shingles. And, the porches always enclosed the homes like an embracing mother.

Often times, from out of nowhere, a German Sheppard would appear with all of its ferocity and clamor to get at my legs. I would always head toward the nearest porch and once I set foot on it, I felt safe. Because I was. Sometimes, I didn’t make the porch and was bitten. But, never, ever, did the dogs venture onto the porch to inflict their own brand of pain. I would usually cower at the front door until a resident would appear to sooth my fear. They would always have a kind word, but sternly push me on my way after the dog‘s attention was caught by another victim.

It would seem that I would pick another route to my destination because of the constant threat of attack. However, I was always confident that if I could reach one of the porches before the dog reached my heels, I’d be fine.

But the real reason that I traversed this path every day was the prize at the end of the road, or at the beginning, in my case. As I would come around the last turn before the road turned to a gritty black and gray from its asphalt covering, a nymph would suddenly appear out of the mist which usually covered the low area, even on a hot, summer day.

She was the epitome of all that was pure and innocent. She would always say the same thing: “Have you come to see me?” I would answer, “No, I’ve come only to see my friend, the Captain.” Then, she would cast her eyes down toward the ground and slowly walk back into the mist.

Now, I always travel on to the bar, where my friends in the bottles are waiting. But, the real reason I walk down that dusty road is not to hang out, not to smoke, not to get a buzz on. No, it is only to see her. The one who appeared from the mist. But only in my dreams.