You might be wondering why I brought you here. And no, you’re not dreaming, at least not in the literal sense. But you’re not quite awake, either.
My name? No, no, that’s not important.
Your name? No, I already know that. I know all about you.
Come.
Don’t be scared. I shall not hurt you.
Take my hand. It’s cold, I know. I want to show you something.
Yes. We’re flying. Well, I’m flying. You’re holding on for dear life. Silly goose, I won’t drop you.
Where are we going? If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise anymore, now, would it? Just keep hold of my hand.
What now? Oh, yes, that’s you below us. Your body, at least. No, you’re not dead; don’t become hysterical. Now, stop asking questions.
Why can’t you move? Why, I told you. You’re partly asleep. You make too much noise; if you don’t stop protesting, I will drop you.
Some part of your subconscious is still dreaming. About what, I’m not sure. Perhaps you’re riding a bike or peering over the edge of the Grand Canyon. The specifics remain unimportant. Keep a tight hold of my hand, now. This is the difficult part.
Why is it difficult? Oh, this is the part where they usually start struggling.
Oh dear, now I’ve done it. Stop fighting me, child. It’s better this way. I said stop fighting me! Your hand is slipping out of mine. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to lose my grip on you.
I know, I know. This is the part where you look down, see your old life drifting away. You’re probably struggling to hold onto the feeling of lying comfortably in bed, probably wrapped in a warm blanket and snuggled deep into your pillow. I know. Are you trying to cling to the last remnants of your physical self, trying to keep hold of the faintest whispers of the dream some other part of you still experiences? Shh. It will all end soon.
Your fingers are sweaty. I’m losing my grip on you. I can’t lose another one, I refuse to lose another one—
You’re falling. Back into your physical self. Your dream is coming to an end. Even now, your bicycle wobbles. You lean out too far over the Canyon. And you fall.
I hear the impact you make as you slam back into yourself, waking you up with a jolt. You survived. I failed.
You’ll probably shake it off as a strange dream. After all, it’s not the first time you’ve been startled awake by your own subconscious. Probably won’t be the last, either.
Still, I hope you remember me.
Because the next time I come to visit you, you might not be so lucky.
Written by: Caroline Johnson
Owl Things Considered 