It was getting easier. I’m very lucky, and have a good home, a wonderful wife and even a companionable cat. Some friends live in the area and can pay visits on our porch, where we sit at a medically recommended six feet distance, with masks on. Groceries come by delivery, and the occasional necessary trip to the grocery store was getting, if not less harrowing, then at least, more predictably frightening. The diseased world turned, and we were getting on with life. But then the dreams started.
Each day was survived, and put aside. At night, I first quiet my thoughts, sanding the sharp edges off them as best I can, and then I let them tumble around a bit, before falling asleep. Whatever comes up is allowed to come and go, and overthinking blends seamlessly into sleep and dream. But now, I find myself in a different world every night.
In this dream world, I parade down streets, as bold as brass, face uncovered. I meet friends and family, and I embrace them. I go to restaurants and eat delicious food. I sit in quiet contentment as I watch my niece and nephews play, my sisters chatting with me about this and that. I am free to go where I like when I like. And there is no virus.
I wake up terribly heavy, if not sobbing. Sometimes, I resist waking up at all. I stay in the Dream world, the COVID-19 Free World, for hours. I wake up at 11:30, noon, 1 pm. I have been asleep for 13 hours, and my wife is worried. I can not ease her worry. I miss dreaming, and wish to return. I walk through my life, thinner and thinner. I wonder, will I be here at all in a few more weeks?
I call my mother to tell her I miss her. She seems tired too. I talk to my friends, and their own sadness mingles with mine. Finally, I ask, what have YOU been dreaming?
“I eat at restaurants with friends,” sighs one friend.
“I’m in the park, having a picnic,” says another.
We’re all of us sliding away into fantasy. This world can no longer engage and fascinate as it could. It is a dull landscape in the newspaper. Just deaths and political incompetence. Dreamland looms ever larger. I’ll meet you there.
Mordecai Martin, Writer 