Dream world

It is funny, how often I tire of your dreams.

Such ludicrosy, such fancies you dear little humans deign to imagine. I hope in saying that you do not fabricate the belief that it is your imagination I resent - oh, of course not - it's just the sheer repetition that can be common in your shallow heads that exhausts me dry with boredom.

It is no joke, this job. Observing dreams has often been described as a complete waste of my eternity.

Yet... admittedly, sometimes it has its pleasures.

With a furtiveness not unlike that of a sly wind in the tropics, I creep slyly over the darkened, honey brown room, reaching out in the blackness until my shaking hand encloses around the familiar rusty brass knob. I teased the drawer backwards, slowly, so slowly, that even my ears, acute as ever, strained and screamed to hear the traditionally squeaky motion.

But if any noise were to be made, my employers would discover my secret and then there would be a tragic separation from my addiction, one I know I just wouldn't be able to cope with.

Separation from my dream worlds.

Well, it's no real sin, is it? Stealing a few favourite dreams. They keep me going, quench my thirst for creativity when I am almost assured there's none left to drain.

A newborn baby would not have been handled with better care - I tenderly lift the first world that comes into contact with my greedy fingers up, up, out of the drawer, til it is aglow, fully aligned with my sharp face, on which a look unveils that can only be described as a scrutinising hunger.

Ah, yes. I remember this dream. I recognise the soft dips and arcs of the vicious grey wave movements in synchronised momentum. The sands in tumultuous uproar at noisy disturbances of a blood ingrained violent pirates raft. The sky is alight with vastly burning torches, scorching with abundance on the cool carried night air, swaying in time to the drunken raucous cries that echo down powerfully into the valley of the island below.

My nose tingled, an irritable reminder of the stench of sea salt that was slowly beginning to engulf the room in gradual conquest.

Hurriedly, I laid the world back in the drawer. Mustn't get caught! Moments hesitation. Sigh of relief. No-one's coming for me.

Like a child who has just been denied his favourite sweets I grab back for one of my various dream worlds to satisfy the aching longing in my brain, spreading forcefully within my gut. Predictably, a shiver of relief courses through me as the second dream world emerges, faintly radiating a purple haze, enticing me to peek.

A blazing sunset rips across my vision, melting all the colours of the rainbow into one, ceaseless canvas. Clouds, spots of haziness, awkwardly displaced normality in this breathtaking sky, circulate dotingly around the stretching firebird that is the Sun, every feather dancing fire.

I rip my enchanted gaze away at the sudden calling for my favourite.

This dream world I handle cautiously, with the most adoration, always its forcing encasement of speechless wonder upon me. I am almost afraid to look – but of course, I cannot refuse.

A calmer, gentler emotion sends a teardrop coursing through the threads of my soul, sharper than a needle, though softer with its intentions. The pastel shades of the world separate themselves effortlessly before my hypnotised eyes. Distantly, a child's laughter reflects the happiness and freedom of the landscape – natural, vibrant forest pines stretching off into the distance, grass fresh from faintly orange dew, moisture tingling in the clear air that caresses my face, smooth enough to pass as motherly hands.

A house to my left grabs my attention, or it could have been the smell of freshly baking cookies, sharing the demands of my stomach with the inclinations of my senses. It is so crooked, yet so perfect… uneven, rounded stones pasted with clumsy cement create the four, secure walls, a large flower framed windowless hole allows me to see the peaceful family inside – mother and father working amiably side by side at the flour sprinkled kitchen worktop, whilst an adorable, rosy-cheeked boy sits at the oak family table scribbling happily in a deep red crayon.

Your world. Just one, perfect snippet of your world if everyone was as equal as they should be, if everything was comfortable, peaceful, a picture of contentment. This is a dream world of your human idealism.

Was there ever such a fantasy?