A Carnival of Dreams

The Flavor of Dreams

Morpheus was a careful man, once. Unlike his sisters: Nightmare, who imbibed regularly, and Memory, who wandered off; he abstained. Instead of breathing in over those who lay still during the night, he breathed out. But with nothing inside, he could only give blankness, a darkness that could either be cold or warm. Some wanted this darkness, some needed it, some hated it, and some feared it. He visited many each night, giving the one thing he could: an empty rest.

Memory had lost herself long ago. She was nothing more than a glimmer, a reflection. Always taking and being taken, but she yearned for more. Gradually, she was left behind and began to fade into the hidden areas, the dark and quiet, waiting for someone to find her and be happy. But no one came. They were all happy with her distorted reflections.

Nightmare rode on her black horse through the silent streets. Her face veiled, she watched for the restless sleepers. Those who were not under her sibling's spells were fair game. Standing over them, she lifted her veil, showing the almost-sleepers her terrible face as she breathed in their hopes and desires, a forbidden yet addictive fragrance. She left them empty and shaking.

Morpheus's sisters appeared happy to him. What if he broke his promise? He now had to know. He went to his sisters and asked, "What is the flavor of a dream?"

Memory was lost, and her reflections were mute and could not respond.

Nightmare simply said, "It is the mundane as mortals wish it would be, and as they fear it is."

The temptation grew, fueled by the unsatisfactory answers, until he had to know. So he broke his promise, the last of the three siblings to do so. He left behind his emptiness and breathed in. It was sweet and yet rotten, wonderful and ordinary, fearful and bitter but somehow light and fresh. The mortals shifted and stirred, no longer full yet not empty. Their faces contorted into a hurt expression. Morpheus no longer cared, he was addicted, forever bound to the wonderful terrible selfish selflessness that was human desires.

Then one day, Morpheus could not find any more dreams. Mortals had forgotten the two-edged sword, forsaken desire for the comfortable sameness of being numb. Or had the sword been stolen, the torch taken, the fire doused by an errant throw? Morpheus awoke to the realization that he had stolen the things his sisters had rarely taken, that he should not have taken, beautiful and free dreams. He breathed out, for the first time in a long span of years.

Now all of Morpheus's breath is tinged with what he took, whether love, hate, peace, sadness, or confusion. He can never totally give mortals pure darkness anymore, but perhaps things are better this way. Man must never forget how to dream, for the double-edged sword is worth it.