A Dream
This was a dream I had. I admit that there is a little embellishment here, but it's because I have poor dream recall, not because I thought it needed more "kick".
There was a boy in front of me, and the longer I looked at him the more familiar he appeared. Finally I realized that it was me, a much younger me, and that he was staring at me with a look of unflinching rage in his face. He told me I was an idiot. He told me that he refused to believe that I was the end result of him. He told me that he didn’t think I deserved to share his name. After many verbal abuses, he said he wanted to tell me a story.
“In life, Nicholas was at the bottom. The Mariana Trench. Minus two-hundred and seventy-three degrees Kelvin. Minutes earlier he was unconscious on the floor thanks to a cocktail of meticulously collected illicit substances, which he had ingested in a variety of creative ways the day before. Now he was lying on the floor against his broken black futon and looking at the off-white wall in front of him, telling himself that he’d get up in another five minutes and eat something. It took fifteen before Nicholas finally suspected that five minutes may, in fact, have already have come and gone.
Ramen noodles were an easy choice. Nicholas considered himself a cut above the rest when it came to Ramen; he did away with the packets and used his own soy sauce instead. He stared at the pot full of water, sitting awkwardly on the uneven tray above the stove burner. Five minutes passed, and still, no boiling. He migrated to his broken black futon and tried to make a mental list of things he could conceivably do with the rest of the day. He had no idea what time it was, even after looking at the clock several times since he had risen into the world of consciousness twenty minutes earlier. It was two in the afternoon, which meant nothing. After all, Nicholas was at the bottom.
One of the apparent conveniences of being at the bottom is that time doesn’t function as the sort of social gravity that it does for most. Nicholas had no appointments, professional or personal- no distractions. If pills and powders and small bags of conspicuous substances were part of a pantheon of material gods, then he was their high priest. He was detached from the moment, in a place where his thoughts and actions did not take time into account. And if that meant he wanted Ramen, well then goddamn he was going to get some Ramen. Has it been five minutes?
By the time he had finished eating, Nicholas had forgotten everything he had thought of doing that day. He decided that watching TV for the rest of the day would suffice before he concocted another cognizance crushing combination of illicit substances.
He was at negative two-hundred and seventy-three degrees Kelvin. There is an absolute zero, the temperature at which anything will literally just fall apart into dust. There is nothing lower. But we also know that there is such thing as positive two-hundred and eighty degrees Kelvin. In fact, there’s no known limit to how hot something can be. You should’ve looked at the sun. Well, no, not really looked at the sun, but you should’ve appreciated what a gift it was a long time ago. That’s the kind of gift you should be to someone.”
And then I woke up.
I should note that I don’t do drugs, let alone scarf down cocktails of who knows what.
I do eat Ramen with soy sauce though.
There was a boy in front of me, and the longer I looked at him the more familiar he appeared. Finally I realized that it was me, a much younger me, and that he was staring at me with a look of unflinching rage in his face. He told me I was an idiot. He told me that he refused to believe that I was the end result of him. He told me that he didn’t think I deserved to share his name. After many verbal abuses, he said he wanted to tell me a story.
“In life, Nicholas was at the bottom. The Mariana Trench. Minus two-hundred and seventy-three degrees Kelvin. Minutes earlier he was unconscious on the floor thanks to a cocktail of meticulously collected illicit substances, which he had ingested in a variety of creative ways the day before. Now he was lying on the floor against his broken black futon and looking at the off-white wall in front of him, telling himself that he’d get up in another five minutes and eat something. It took fifteen before Nicholas finally suspected that five minutes may, in fact, have already have come and gone.
Ramen noodles were an easy choice. Nicholas considered himself a cut above the rest when it came to Ramen; he did away with the packets and used his own soy sauce instead. He stared at the pot full of water, sitting awkwardly on the uneven tray above the stove burner. Five minutes passed, and still, no boiling. He migrated to his broken black futon and tried to make a mental list of things he could conceivably do with the rest of the day. He had no idea what time it was, even after looking at the clock several times since he had risen into the world of consciousness twenty minutes earlier. It was two in the afternoon, which meant nothing. After all, Nicholas was at the bottom.
One of the apparent conveniences of being at the bottom is that time doesn’t function as the sort of social gravity that it does for most. Nicholas had no appointments, professional or personal- no distractions. If pills and powders and small bags of conspicuous substances were part of a pantheon of material gods, then he was their high priest. He was detached from the moment, in a place where his thoughts and actions did not take time into account. And if that meant he wanted Ramen, well then goddamn he was going to get some Ramen. Has it been five minutes?
By the time he had finished eating, Nicholas had forgotten everything he had thought of doing that day. He decided that watching TV for the rest of the day would suffice before he concocted another cognizance crushing combination of illicit substances.
He was at negative two-hundred and seventy-three degrees Kelvin. There is an absolute zero, the temperature at which anything will literally just fall apart into dust. There is nothing lower. But we also know that there is such thing as positive two-hundred and eighty degrees Kelvin. In fact, there’s no known limit to how hot something can be. You should’ve looked at the sun. Well, no, not really looked at the sun, but you should’ve appreciated what a gift it was a long time ago. That’s the kind of gift you should be to someone.”
And then I woke up.
I should note that I don’t do drugs, let alone scarf down cocktails of who knows what.
I do eat Ramen with soy sauce though.
