Chapter 8

A few weeks pass, and something significant happens, as nothing significant ever happens in my life.  Only, it seems, when dreams came into my life: has it gotten any more interesting.  So of course, I am speaking about a dream.

I was running.  Running and running and running.  Two cops were speeding after me, and I had no clue why. The only thing I could think was, Does Mr. Simmons have anything to do with this?  I continued to run even though I knew the inevitable.  The only reason I could run like this is from going on the treadmill.  I know that.  And heck, I hate running.  I much prefer speed walking.  But, I don't have a choice, do I?

One of the people running after me-a man- seemed to be running straight through air, as if he was continually popping a balloon.

I continued to run and run, and I wasn't getting tired at all.  But the strange thing was, I could feel myself slowing down.

No, no, I can't slow down now!  Who knows what the cops will do to me!  No, no-don't go there.  They won't catch me!  I am coming to an intersection-I can lose them there!  I can flag a car down to run over them!

Too bad I was thinking so illogically, otherwise I'm sure I could've out smarted them.

I continued to run and run, and I started to pass 'my' school.

No, no.  They won't catch me!  If they catch me-I'll be admitting defeat.  I will just be as weird as everyone in school used to say.

Sure they thought I was weird when I asked questions that were nearly irrelevant (you know, the questions that a person just wants to know but aren't necessary for a test.  I was the only one that way in school), but not many kids thought I was super weird.  I wasn't an outcast.  Just a few select people didn't like me because of that, and my analogies.  Other than that, I was just as liked as the next guy.

Focus, focus!  Stop slowing down-I must speed up!  I will not let this happen to myself.  DON'T STOP!  I can't afford to slow down!

Soon, I was starting to run into a park, and they were quickly catching up to me.

I couldn't run any faster.  I was slowing down.  It was like two giant bricks were placed on my feet-and a giant's invisible hand was obstructing my speed.

They were coming so close, I knew...this is the end.  I must admit defeat!  I have failed.  Failed!  I must admit defeat.  I am a loser like everyone used to say!

But then I blinked, and I wasn't dead.  The park was gone.  The cops were gone.  The bricks were lifted off my feet, the hand was gone.  I was standing in paradise.

Around me, I saw a beach, palm trees, crystal blue water, the whole bit.  But that's not what I was paying attention to.  There were some other guys in front of me, some of which looked strange.  One was a rocker that belonged in a heavy metal concert, and another looked like an old fashioned French man or something... And another guy that must have dyed his hair.  It obviously wasn't his color!  And just some plain Joe.  But they weren't paying attention to me.  I looked up.  And I saw what they were staring at.

It was a girl.  She was brilliant, my eyes were drawn to her.  Her features glowed.  I unfortuanatly couldn't really make out her face, but it didn't matter.

She was walking toward us guys.  All of them were oogling her with extreme interest in the same way I was.  They were in awe-I was in awe.

But then, she passes all of them, and she comes to me.  Even though I'm in the back.  Slowly, elegantly, she walked toward me.  Her features glowed, but her face seemed to lack emotion.  But instead, I found myself drawn to her.  I let her come to me.

She comes up to me, starts to take me in her arms like it was nothing.  Her hand was so close to my cheek-I was so close to carressing her upper arm.  She was going to kiss me.

Finally, I'm going to get my first kiss and this time I'm not going to pass out!  I don't feel woozy at all.  Sure I feel butterflies from her extreme elegance, but I feel firm.

But the dream slipped from my fingertips.  Reluctantly, I got up, crying inside that I could not finish the kiss that I had begun.

But I decided I had no interest in getting up.  I just went back on my bed and sat.  I just wanted to think about the feeling.  She was bright, vibrant somehow.  Looking back, I knew that I would never feel like that in real life.  I guess the feeling was exagerated in my dream.  It was like I had no choice.  She was going to kiss me whether I liked it or not-at least that's what I felt like.  She wouldn't take no for an answer.  It was like something was drawing me toward her.  And that wasn't just her appearance.

I didn't even bother to look it up on the dream dictionary today.  It was quite obvious why I dreamt about what I did-my life lacks romance and I want it.  No more to it.  And the police?  I could care-a-less about that.

Later, I went to my parent's house since it's Sunday.  A lot of Sundays I go to their house for dinner.

My dad is an author.  He is pretty shy, but he's still a good guy.  That's why sometimes I prefer to talk with Mr. Simmons, he is certainly not shy like my dad.  The problem is we are pretty opposite that's all.  It's not like he's going to understand my analogies or how I am okay with attention.  He's too smart for that-and shy.

And my mother, I mean, I guess I could talk to her, but she isn't much better than dad.  She was the biggest outcast ever in school, and was pretty shy herself.  She's an artist.  That's actually how she met dad!  My dad's brother- uncle Otto-asked her to paint for them.  He and his brother used to live in a big house, but when my parents just got married they wanted to live somewhere else and let Otto live there with my other uncle, Stephan.

"Come in, come in!  Glad to see you've made it on time."

"Dad-I always make it on time."

Dad's always joking about me making it on time and not being late, like it's supposed to be funny.  But it's not, and it's getting old.  I think I may have been later once.  And if you knew my dad-he remembers everything and won't let anything go.  There are few exceptions.

"Yesturday I finished a painting.  It's called "Snowy Forest in the Middle of Winter". It's over there."

She pointed behind her near the stairs.

My mom loves to paint and she's great at it-but unfortuanatly, she's really bad with coming up with names for her paintings.  My author of a dad helps her with that, or me.

"It looks lovely mother!  But how about "Icy Snow"?  Less wordy."  I just love abstract names that describe what it's describing which makes it become obsolete.

"Erm-yeah, that's nice."

My parents, bless them, they always try to understand my strange analogies, if that's what this would be called.

"I am working on a new book called "A Day of the Life of Benji Putton."  It's a comedy about a man and his dog-and the trouble that follows them.  I should be done in a few months."

"That's nice, dad.  Maybe I could read it sometime?"

Too bad my dad is nothing like me, or he could really help me with...the way that I am in which I cannot change.  Because with how he is, he wouldn't understand the last part of the last sentence.  Even though it makes perfect sense.  He is one of those 'I'm really smart, but I only try to understand things that make good, logical sense' guys.

Not too much later, the delivery guy came with our food.

My parents have never been that good at cooking.  My dad used to have a butler because they're so rich-but it was all inherited.  They like a little bit of a simpler life now.  And my mother...well, she has a long story but she never had to cook when she lived with dad and my uncles.

I grabbed some turkey (MMMM) while I continued to stare at "Icy Snow".  The white had such a brilliant color.  Even the grays and blues of the painting looked neat.  It reminded me of my dreams-just the general feel of it.  I'm staring at it-and if I were in that painting, it would be the same as a dream.  I'm in it, but not truly in it.  While in my head in dreams- I feel apart of the dream world, yet there's a certain detathc-ed-ness.

"But how have you been, Alex?  I'm sorry, your mother and I have been talking about ourselves, we forgot to ask about you!  You seemed to be especially happy today!  Why are you so happy, son?"

Of course I am happy because I'm still thinking about the dream, the girl.  But mostly I was thinking about the feeling that came with seeing the girl.

"Oh, yes...It was a dream..."

I have mentioned to them recently my new-found interest in dreams.  They're the only ones that know.  I just can't tell Jeff or Marshall... Cause they're them. They did the parent bullshit- 'That's so nice that something is staring to spark your interest!  I'm glad that you found a hobby you like'.  Not that dreaming really is a hobby. So pretty much they were just saying that just because they're my parents and they have too.  I could see in their eyes that they weren't really interested in my new 'hobby'.  But at least they didn't think it was weird.  They were just uninterested.

Well, that conversation didn't go so well to say the least.  We all stared at our plates and chowed down.  We didn't utter a word.  My parents just don't like dreams at all, and they won't admit it.  I don't know why.  If they just get a chance to read into them, and look at them for what they're trying to tell us.  It's not like I could persuade them to like them-they're getting old, they're too set in their ways.

But that was okay-I didn't really feel like talking to them anymore.  I just wanted to continue to day dream about my wonderful, wonderful dream.  It was probably my best dream I ever had-even though it was unfinished.