I am writing about a writer who writes about a writer dreaming about himself writing about his dreams.
To tell you, neither I nor any of the characters involved in this multi-layered plot can distinguish the real from the unreal. Even if I am the ultimate writer, it doesn’t add authority because my hands are cuffed, my eyes are covered with thick dark cloth, and my mind is wrapped all over in barbs. It is not easy to accept – and I find it strange – that I don’t have the freedom to decide what my writer has to tell; nor do I have the liberty to design what my dreamer has to see. This is a rare happening when and where I exist, at the least, only as a spectator like you and everybody else reading this story; and, at the most, a weaver of these narratives like myself at this very moment.
I don’t know how it goes. It is as though my writer has his own world entirely independent from mine. He breathes with his own lungs and thinks with his own mind. I can sense him sitting right next to me, dictating the words I should use, directing the flow, commanding the structure. I can even smell his breath and sweat like scents of any living soul.
Like when I breathe out at the height of my excitement.
Like when I sweat after a fervent love affair.
And my dreamer, my dreamer who writes about his dreams, also seems to exist separately from me and my writer. I don’t have any idea how he remembers his dreams and expresses them vividly as real as the fact that every living thing dies. Sometimes, I suspect that my writer and my dreamer connive. Do they communicate with each other more often than how frequently I speak with each of them? Do they share memories and hide those that they want to keep secretly? I wonder if they meet each other.
And if they do?
June 22, 09
12:10 am – 12:30am