I mean, what I mean is …

I wouldn’t say I have been great lately and I mean, I have not been myself, but that’s not where I am getting at, for that’s an entirely different story. What I mean is, that sometimes, the line between my dreams and reality is so blurred, that I am not sure, which side (of the two) I am going to wake up the next morning.

For instance, two weeks ago on a Saturday (I think it was a Saturday), I was at the liquor mart.  And next to me, clothed in crushed trousers,  was a man with a purple hat in his early fifties, peeking through the wine cellar; wine browsing, like some say. Now you’d argue, why a fifty year old man would wear a purple hat? Honestly, I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care, and honestly, it’s not important or something that I am getting at. Anyway, I am someone, who goes for the cheapest one on the rack. So I crossed him out of my turn, mostly because I was in a hurry, but also because I knew what I really wanted. It was impolite, yes, but the oldie was taking too much of my time that I did not have.


Then, I stood at the counter waiting for the cashier to ring the bottle up, but he was quiet and lost; I had to tap his shoulder twice. I paid the bills and excused my way out, but my eyes couldn’t spot the sliding door that I had walked in through. There was a wall made out of glass, from one end to the other; no doors, no exit points, no door handles. I swear, I had walked in through a door! How else would I walk in to a store that has no doors? I touched the glass, tried to find the door gap in it, but I couldn’t. I panicked and bumped in to cartons and crates and refrigerators–like a blind dog. Have you ever seen a blind dog? Well let me just say that you’d feel pity for him, and you’d feel pity for him more than you’d feel pity for a blind dude.

Then I realized, I was probably looking at the wrong side, so I turned around, but there wasn’t any other exit. The whole store was packed with liquor bottles and everyone was staring at me. Then they started dragging themselves towards me, like zombies in a video game.

They came closer and sniffed me, one bit my face the other one pulled out a handful of hair from my skull. I cracked my wine bottle on one guy’s head and stabbed the other one with the remaining half. Killed a few – I think, but the motherfuckers kept coming at me, Bam Bam Bam, one after the other; scratching, growling and sniffing, stinking fuckers.

Five minutes in to all the gore, someone breathed on my neck; “excuse me”, he said, and the door slid open wide in front of my eyes; it was always there.

So you see what I mean? I could have died, if I was not quick or if it really happened.  Now, I have had these kind of nightmarish occurrences in the past, because of my actual past, but I won’t really go there either, for that’s also a different story. What I am saying is, that I don’t know who is real and who isn’t, when I walk in and out of a store or a bus or an underground plaza. I don’t know who is standing behind me when I close my eyes under the shower or take a nap in a parking lot.

Another instance of madness is two nights ago, when I slept with my phone on charge, far away on the table, like I always do, and early morning (at around 7), I dreamt of my friend; “pick up the goddamn phone”, he said. And I woke up to the sounds of my phone ringing on the table. I picked it up, and he said “why did you call me five minutes ago and did not speak a word?”

What! I called him? I have not seen the guy in eight months, why would I call him? No … wait … how would I call him? I was sleeping, remember? The phone was on the table, I was on my bed and I was tucked in the blanket, like a baby. Yes, I was dreaming about him, but that didn’t mean I called him. So, I cut the awkward phone conversation, thinking it was a prank or that he had mistaken me for someone else. But soon after I checked my dialed numbers; I had really not spoken for three long minutes in my last call dialed to him. Jesus Christ! Who did that? Who called him from my phone?

And if all this wasn’t enough, the street dogs mocked me the same night. A withered, crazy looking diseased dog wept near my leg late mid-night when I was walking back to my house. He growled first, with airy voice, like he had cough or something. But when I paid attention, it sounded like he talked in a human voice. I walked away, but he chased me, then barked at me, said something nasty, like he cursed me and meant it at the same time. So, I picked up a goddamn boulder and mushed this little piece of shit’s head in to the ground, but the son of a bitch still didn’t quit barking. So I kicked his gut, till he begged me to stop and said sorry at the end of it. I must’ve taught him a pretty neat lesson, but then someone asked me, why was I was kicking a plant? A plant? Really? A plant? A dog looked like a plant to him?

Man! I am sure this is all a prank or an illusion or a blasphemy and everyone is wearing a mask, a façade of sanity. You think, things are the way you think they are, but you couldn’t be more mistaken. All you got to do, is look around with closed eyes, but then what do I know, I am just a man who sees zombies in people and diseased dogs in plants.

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