Jack Lyons
He never noticed it in the past, the far-side of the wall being crooked. Kneeling down, tracing his palm down the corner of the room, he finds that his hand veers to the right. From the perspective on the couch, he always thought it was parallel, but it’s crooked. There’s also a stain on the floor, he’s not entirely sure what it’s from. Perhaps dirt, perhaps coffee. He wouldn’t have been able to see it, the light brown spot on the gray carpet, if the sun didn’t intrude on his living room. Then it strikes him, how thin the curtains are, how they barely shield his eyes from the sun. It’s quite annoying, actually, now that he’s fixated on it.
After separating his mind from the imperfections of the room, he finally drifts off, entering a strange realm. He finds
himself venturing through a world where all is the same except for the terrain of tightly woven, thick slabs of cobwebs. Long stretches of prairies upon cobwebs. A city, the suburbs, a small town, a municipal station, a grocery store. Everything rests on cobwebs. He travels through it all in the blink of an eye, but the sights are not lost. They stick in his mind, no matter how fast he is moving. Farms, meadows, rainforests, wild horses, mountain cats, people. In a matter of seconds, he holds absolute knowledge of this realm. After quickly traveling the globe of this world, he finds himself at a waterfront, and the world assumes real-time. He walks along the surface and his feet are absorbed into the sand below him, like walking on a sturdy trampoline. Withevery gust of wind, the ground below him ripples and shakes. The water moves like molasses, awfully slow and dramatic. A black mass with tidal wave crests and billows that swoop so low that they nearly scathe the cobweb surface. Behind him, the world was light. The canvas above was pink and textured, and beheld an orange sun. Now, over the waterfront, the sky is obsidian. There is no sun. No moon. Above is blackness. Ahead is blackness. Still, he can see the picture clearly. It’s eerie, yet there’s a curious beauty to it. Miles ahead, the world begins again. It’s not a new city across a body of water. No, he recognizes the terrain miles before me-it is where he began the dream. The prairie, the city, the suburbs, the small town. He descends into the water and strides forward. He dives, and once completely submerged, he awakes from his slumber. Never has he dreamed so lucidly, so undistracted and untainted by the real world. It was strange and dark, yet thrilling.
himself venturing through a world where all is the same except for the terrain of tightly woven, thick slabs of cobwebs. Long stretches of prairies upon cobwebs. A city, the suburbs, a small town, a municipal station, a grocery store. Everything rests on cobwebs. He travels through it all in the blink of an eye, but the sights are not lost. They stick in his mind, no matter how fast he is moving. Farms, meadows, rainforests, wild horses, mountain cats, people. In a matter of seconds, he holds absolute knowledge of this realm. After quickly traveling the globe of this world, he finds himself at a waterfront, and the world assumes real-time. He walks along the surface and his feet are absorbed into the sand below him, like walking on a sturdy trampoline. Withevery gust of wind, the ground below him ripples and shakes. The water moves like molasses, awfully slow and dramatic. A black mass with tidal wave crests and billows that swoop so low that they nearly scathe the cobweb surface. Behind him, the world was light. The canvas above was pink and textured, and beheld an orange sun. Now, over the waterfront, the sky is obsidian. There is no sun. No moon. Above is blackness. Ahead is blackness. Still, he can see the picture clearly. It’s eerie, yet there’s a curious beauty to it. Miles ahead, the world begins again. It’s not a new city across a body of water. No, he recognizes the terrain miles before me-it is where he began the dream. The prairie, the city, the suburbs, the small town. He descends into the water and strides forward. He dives, and once completely submerged, he awakes from his slumber. Never has he dreamed so lucidly, so undistracted and untainted by the real world. It was strange and dark, yet thrilling.
He decides to take a walk, perhaps childishly hoping that the world outside is the one from his dream. It doesn’t take him long to realize that no transportation or metamorphosis of any kind has occurred. The sky above the pier isn’t mystic or dark and the water doesn’t roll like thick syrup. Yet, the scene is striking. Above, a thick streak of violet interrupts an intricate pink plain, while thick and thin scribbles of white clouds are scattered throughout. The vast stretch of ocean is calm and peaceful, its light blue tint is inviting and warm. There is a mysterious, fantastical element to it.
Along the boardwalk is a bistro with an area for outdoor seating. It’s packed with smiling faces, ones that are eager to spill the intricate details of their day. He finds it interesting to think of these people-where they came from, the features of their day, their inhibitions, their fears, their ambitions. They’re all talking about these things right now, sharing their human experiences with one another. Figuring out how to figure things out. Somehow, he feels like a snapshot of the scene before him is the work of a famous painter. In the middle of the shot, a waiter sporting black and white formal attire laughs, his hand extended to shake a patron’s hand. Off to the left, some kids scurry around on the pier, wide eyed and energetic. Right next to them is a dad with a scrunched face, his pointer finger towards them in an attempt to set their behavior straight. The sky above and the sea behind serve as a humble backdrop. The contrast is intriguing, like the work of Vincent van Gogh or Rembrandt. He’s never seen it this way before, life being an ongoing string of consecutive snapshots. Yet, he thinks he’ll look at things differently from now on. It’s beautiful, and it makes sense, life being one big photograph.