I am a man of many colors; passionate about every aspect of my life: good books, Film Noir; my extracurricular activity, drinking, which I do well above all else. I am a perfectionist and very demanding, yet my bark is worse than my bite. I am an introvert, and I see this life of mine, being here, as a failure. I have had many disappointments so I do not trust so willingly, but my heart aches for someone to love, and for someone to love me.
Monday, November 8, 1982
I woke to the sound of waves rushing against the shore. What beach? I didn’t know. I had an eerie feeling that I had been on a long journey. It was hard to explain; like I was looking back into my past and looking forward into my future at the same time; like I was certain and then not so certain. It was a very strange feeling. I felt no anxiety, only peace of mind.
The water was calm now. In the distance, I saw someone rowing toward the shore in a row boat. Next thing I knew there was a man walking toward me as if he expected to meet me there. He was tall and muscular and wore a long, white robe. I got up to greet him. He offered his hand.
“I am Martin,” he said, introducing himself with a smile.
“I am John,” I replied, as I shook his hand.
“It has been some time since one of our kind before the extension has come to being here.”
I thought his manner of speech was odd. “What do you mean?”
“You will know in time.”
He turned to look at the shore. “Come with me,” he said.
I followed him back to the row boat and got in after him. As he rowed I listened. He pointed to an island not too far away, “My home is over there,” he said, “it’s not much to look at, especially if I compare it to my former home, but I am happy there.”
“Where did you live before?”
“I grew up in a large house with many servants. I have fond memories of my mother’s love, but not too much else.”
I said nothing.
“…Your mother?” Martin asked abruptly, breaking my train of thought.
“My mother? What do you mean?”
“Tell me about her. Did you love her?”
“Yes.” I answered quickly. Although I felt it was necessary to clarify that my mother was still alive, since he phrased his question in the past tense. “I do.”
“Describe her to me.”
I searched my mind for the vision of my mother, and to my surprise I could not recall her face.
“Is something wrong?” Martin asked, and the tone of his voice seemed to comfort me.
“I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?”
He did not answer me. As we were nearing the shore I noticed some people approaching. Their mannerisms were strange; spiritual.
“Come, let me introduce you to my friends.”
Martin was a stranger to me, and yet I was willing to follow him and even meet his friends. As we walked up to them they surrounded me, and then they were gone. Martin too!
I’ve had dreams before, but this was different. It was so vivid. Usually my dreams are discernable in my mind for about a millisecond after I wake up, but this one lingered in my thoughts; mostly my conversation with Martin and how memories of my mother had faded to the point of disassociation.
I looked at the clock on my night table. It was two minutes before six. The alarm would ring soon and I would have to get up for work. That thought did not appeal to me. It was Monday and I hated Mondays, especially when I had been drinking the night before. I turned around to look at my empty bed and before I knew it I was back under the covers, with no intention of getting up again. I took the phone off the hook to be sure.
I slept most of the day and got up about five o’clock. ‘shit’ I said to myself under my breath, ‘I didn’t go to work. There will be hell to pay for that I’m sure.’ I showered and shaved and went to the diner for something to eat. I didn’t dare go out drinking afterward for fear I’d miss another day of work, so I just went home, had a few beers, and fell asleep watching TV.