Daydream | Morpheus

of the empty spaces in the empty world

So it's 1 am and school night and I think I'm going to finish this, which has been sitting here for like a few months hehe :))
(Also I'm sorry)
~*~
I have first met a magician in Berlin, at one of the worn-down bars, circa 1989. He was, however, a neccesity in my current situation.

The world was empty for a few years.

I didn't have a lot of work to do ever since I've stumbled here. Berlin, or what I've known of it, was a ghost of a city that reminded me more of ruined Warsaw than  of great nation this country use to claim to be.

There wasn't much life of any kind that mattered. There wasn't much dreams, either.

I thought that I had to give it time, that eventually people will start to pull themselves out of the gray reality surrounding us all, but that wasn't the case. During war, even, I haven't experienced such lack of will, such tiredness to even close their eyes and escape for a second. No. People here strived to be conscious, their legs stepping firmly on the cold ground, navigating those complicated, boring lives.

I was becoming a ghost myself. Day by day, I was fading, and with me all my memories, and feelings. I was slowly becoming dull, unmoved by the events of the day which I wondered at emotionlessly as next mornings, noons, and evening came. And went. And nothing changed.

They build a wall. Killed each other, as they always did. The violence and injustice were still as present as during the war, but upon its end only the clearance with which I saw them changed. Now, they melted with each other and although noticed and seen, went by as if nobody really bothered with their existence. People get used to things.

I've got used to things. After years on end on waiting for Morpheus in the Dreaming, it only took five or six here on Earth to start forgetting what he meant. Well, perhaps. At least that's what I felt like.

The feelings seemed to dissapear, and with them any thoughts of the Endless.

Except maybe, sometimes. But it was in the middle of the nights, under the cover of the night. And I kept my sobs quiet. It hardly counted.

The magician was drinking beer at the bar when I entered, and upon seeing my figure slide through the doors, unnoticed by most, raised his glass to me signalling to approach him. It is not as if I had a better thing to do, so that was exactly what I did.

"I should know you." He said, first, staring at me with those piercing eyes which made me feel unseasy. The whole man did, in truth, with that curious look he wore as he lustrated me, "But I don't."

He was British, his accent thick as the man did not try to hide it one bit. It was certainly weird for him to have any business in this part of the city, but I didn't want to question him about that particularly. It is not what most caught my attention.

There was something about him, although I cannot describe it well. An electricity in the air, perhaps.

"Oh, you do. You just don't realise that's who I am." I've murmured, smiling softly, "You have a feeling when you see me, and you cannot exactly pinpoint it, but you realise I'm familiar to you. Or something like that. Well, do not worry. I get that quite a lot."

The man nodded at my words, but something in his face said he wasn't fully convinced.

"It's not that." He shook his head, "I know where you come from. I feel you do not belong, in a way all of you do, Endless. But I haven't had any idea of your particular existence. It's intriguing. Especially now."

I froze at the familiar name. He only smiled at my reaction, „And there's my confirmation."

Deciding not to speak until I find out something more about this strange man, or maybe run out of the bar, I sat stuck in my place.

This was a first time I had ever been recognised. This was a sign.

Something was changing in the world, and not only in this one. Some lines were being erased, or at the very least smuged. This man, he must have been a mistake of some kind.

A mistake, for a second, I thought to eradicate.

It wouldn't be hard.

I've seen it so many times. It usually didn't take longer than a second. Maybe two.

That's also how long the thought lasted before I choked on it, returning back to reality to wonder what was it that happened to me. Wheter it was the constant closeness of death or lack of regard for life that likened me to a killer.

„I suppose you've come to find him, then." He chuckled. It's a shame I was so busy with my thoughts to wonder who he meant, then. Because instead of asking, I kept staring before me, not seeing much more than my own thoughts.

It was there when I first wondered upon the apathy that was spreading through the world. Through me.

I took a sip of a drink that I don't know when got in front of me and stilled, thinking of nothing.

Every time he spoke I murmured something in answer, no longer paying the man any attention. That would be my mistake.

Meanwhile, the glasses filled up and drained, over and over again, in a clueless search for something that used to clutch to my thoughts, my chest, and squeeze it in pain or excitement. But it was no longer there.

What was there, was a funny feeling in my head that grew and grew, until my thoughts of nothing mophed into no thoughts at all.

In a city where no one dreamed anymore, I was left at the pity of my own dreams. And now, it started to become painfully obvious that those do not exist anymore.

Did they ever? If I had enough strengh, perhapd I would wonder of that question. Maybe even remember the days of suffering because of those dreams taht could never be realised.

Perhaps, even I'd think about someone that's left my thoughts long ago - voloutarily or not; for better or for worse - and feel that sobering itch of pain somewhere on the left of my chest.

But I was all the more tired, and my head and mind started still along with my body.

I looked at the glass, turning the golden liquid round and round.

I smiled, trying to remember what happy feels like; and then, upon failure, I tried to cry - but I wasn't sad.

Round and round, the gold spinned in my glass until it was the world that started spinning instead.

Had apathy not consumed me so, I would have realised something was wrong - probably. Since when can a dream can get drunk?

Not by the normal liquor, that's for sure.

I turned to the man on my right. As the world spun, I noticed something peculiar.

Something so not in place in this world, it brought me back. That image of his gritted teath, and that hatred in his eyes.

It brought me back just for the second. Then, there was the sudden pain in my shoulder as the man's drown turned into the slightest smile.

I was brought into dark, only to wake up in a basement. It was upon seeing a body, curled up in a transparent bowl of kind, suspended into the air and staring at the pentagon drawn below that I realised.

I have met my first magician in 1989. It was 18th of November - I have checked that later. 71 years, 6 months and 5 days. Approximately.

And of all the places, here he was. Hiding in some magician's basement.