Scattered Dreams & Dragonflies

Dirty mirrors

I saw myself walking around an empty space. I could see the dirt around me subtly being launched into the air with every gentle grazing of my feet. I knew I was moving; my eyes and mind did not betray me. However, my feet were numb to the feeling of the floor. In the distance, the image of a family slowly came into view. As I moved in their direction, I began to see them more clearly. Soon, within a few steps of them, they began to notice my presence, but they did not talk to me. Instead, they continued to mumble amongst themselves as I passed by.

It was a family of four. In my mind, there was no immediate recollection of who they were or what their dynamic was. However, it was safe to assume that the family of four was composed of a father, mother, an older sister, and her brother. With every step I took, it felt as if their lives were moving faster than mine. With my eyes anchored to the four strangers, I continued to walk as life unfolded before me.

In a span of a few moments, many things happened, considering the few steps I took at the time. In the beginning, I saw them talk amongst themselves. Afterwards, they began to eat a green-colored type of fruit I did not recognize. Although I did not recognize the fruit, it seemed to have a rather negative effect on the two kids, who immediately showed discomfort with it. As soon as they stopped eating the fruit, I noticed the faces of the two kids begin to change. From within the pores of the girl's face, encrusted pieces of dirt began to form. Her face began to swell as the amount of dirt increased. However, her demeanor did not change. What seemed painful from my perspective left no impression on her; she continued on with her gestures, standing rather comfortably.

Her brother, however, suffered a different fate. For a few seconds, the image of the boy had disappeared. My eyes were only focused on the girl's changing facial features. Suddenly, the image of the boy caught my attention. His face, in contrast to his sister's, was severely affected. His face, left nearly unrecognizable, only showed scattered pieces of dirt constantly falling from it. I could remember him reaching, trying to remove the constantly falling dirt. All of his facial features were drowned by a sea of unending dirt falling from his face. His shrieks of worry and pain were only matched by the intensity of his hands as he attempted to recuperate his face. What I could see, and he failed to understand, was that the more he dug, the less of his face remained. It seemed like he was digging rather than removing dirt. His face was now the dirt he wished to get rid of, and in that sense, he was destroying his own face in frustration.

His family around him, noticing his pain, pleaded with him. The mother, showing the most urgency of all, called out to him in frustration, "Stop, stop scratching yourself, it's only temporary... please stop." Again and again, the mother would talk to her son, attempting to convince him to stop. But he would not. No matter what they said, what words of encouragement they brought, the boy would continue to scratch the inside of his now dirt-turned face.

To me, his pain was real. It seemed as far from temporary as you could consider. I mean, sure, if you could consider that as soon as I opened my eyes, if he was in fact a fiction or piece of my latent imagination manifesting, he would cease to exist. Regardless of who he was or from what part of my subconscious mind he came to be, I saw his pain, his shrieks of pain for what they were: real.