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A dream of Wes Anderson-like aesthetics

I had a dream.

A dream in medias res. The last five-minutes before fully awakening actually, so it's not technically medias. We were in a mall-like place, a grand Victoria Plaza, with beautiful girls, sisters, and some guys in this universe that I somehow knew, but all were faceless. Just people. A vivid dream with no clarity beyond the shapes and sizes. But I liked them, and they happened to like me back, and one of them appreciated me more than the others.

"It's nine," she said, referring to the time. We still have time. I have a gut instinct this one is calling for the movies. I could not for the life of me remember what film it was.

And so we hurried off to the back, running the roundabout until we reached it, and sadly there wasn't a lift to be found. It was just a huge leafy gazebo that are normally found in dreams, totally fake and pretentious. And so all of them ran again, towards the higher steps, the Wonderland-esque escalators and other snakey bits of transportation. I woke up never finding these people again.

Isn't that sad? A fact of life a fact as old as life in fact itself. It felt very detached. I felt detached from everything. Like I am now. And on that same moment I somehow felt that it wasn't the first trip of mine into this mall-like place. My peripheries recognise a lot of obscure stalls from my subconscious. I knew, somehow, the heavy burden has returned. How? This time I have a suitcase out of the blue. As if I've been carrying it the whole time. But dreams normally work like that. Rationalising these would never amount to anything substantial. I took my first step to following the others with great pride and without question. That is just how life is.

I climbed a few steps towards the grotto, not too high. Dan was there. Fucking Dan. Reading some sort of Bible to cure his social awkwardness, maybe. The irony of it was in real life I was the socially awkward one. He nodded and winked and moved along, and as I turn my back, I found myself a thousand miles high on a cliff, and someone there to help me lift my suitcase up. Fucking odd. Kevin Love.

People were swinging on vines like Tarzan. I knew this wasn't the mall anymore. Everything is barren now, and the air all moist and fickle. It made my skin all itchy. And I realise I'm standing on a thousand miles high worth of suitcases. Other people's suitcases. I'm trying to go down but this asshole hanging by a vine threw my suitcase to the ground. The certain kindness of strangers. Fucking hell. He was Joe Johnson or someone.

Other people were waiting in queue, but I jumped on top of him, and we glided down flawlessly. Despite his earlier actions, that trip down was soothing. Soothing but anticlimactic. Like that feeling when you cycle up a hill and suffer an hour of agony trying to push higher and higher, and once you reach the top you have no other option but down, so you cycle down the elevation and discover it only takes two minutes worth of exhilaration to end what is a relaxing autopilot mode.

What is two minutes of joy compared to an hour of pain? Everything.

I woke up then. My mother's legs were untangling, twitchy. All I wanted to think about were the women and why I couldn't put their faces in place. It was just a feeling, I concluded, perhaps a subconscious desire, and I woke up to nothing at all.

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