Orrinbyrde

Chapter I ~ Toby

It's a rare occasion when I actually find myself dreaming. On a list—a rather extensive one, at that—of all of my peculiar little quirks and idiosyncratic oddities, I've come to the conclusion that my dreamless nights get placed at the very top of the list. The research I've done suggests that I'm most likely not getting enough REM sleep. It's plausible—I stay up too late, sometimes all the way until the sun begins to rise. Perhaps my body just doesn't have enough time to sleep soundly. That, however, is not what this journal entry is about. I once read on a psychology website that writing can calm anxiety. I thought that I might try it out since I have anxiety to spare. It's the summer after my high school graduation. Just like anyone else, I have no idea what to do with myself. This feels like useless details since it's 2 AM. I should probably go to sleep.

My journal makes a soft thud against the wood of my bedside table, almost in protest of my cease of writing. It's as if it were asking me—no, begging me—to do something, anything, other than lying restlessly on my mattress, staring at the ceiling. Sleep has never come easily to me. Still, it's worth a try.

As predicted, I do in fact, lie restlessly. I can feel the time passing me by—slowly, as if I were watching water boil. I'm determined. Keeping my eyes scrunched closed in high hopes of quenched exhaustion, I try to force sleep to catch up to my tired body.

Physically, tired doesn't even begin to describe the state of my body. Beaten up with an aluminum baseball bat and then thrown through a woodchipper, maybe. My mind, however, is awake, buzzing with anxious overthinking and the mental sounds of improbable scenarios being played out on the back of my eyelids. That's the issue—my mind and body can't seem to compromise on my sleep-related needs.

Remember earlier when I'd said that I don't dream? That fact—despite being previously irrelevant—is just about to come into play. 99% of the time, my dreams are stark and inky blackness—an empty abyss, filled to the brim with an extraordinary amount of nothing. This time is different. When my brain finally allows sleep to overtake me, it becomes apparent—tonight is the 1%. Tonight is a night where I dream.

Waking up—at least I think that's what just happened—in a forest with blades of grass littering my dark hair is, quite honestly, even more out of place than what even I'd consider unusual. Maybe this time was 1% of a 1%. A 0.01%.

One small attempt at sitting up later, and it was quickly realized that I'd arrived here—wherever it is that I am—with a knot unwelcomingly formed in my back from waking up on the hard earthy ground.

Actually, no—not earthy. Earthy was the wrong way to go about describing the setting. Wherever I am, it's not Earth. The grass and trees are so green, so beautiful, that they look like they came straight out of the pages of a fairy tale. They looked fake, almost—like those plastic houseplants that people get because they're too lazy to water actual plants. The trees are so incredibly tall, that when I look up I can't even see the tops. Their trunks seemed to stretch endlessly up into the blue, blue sky, fading away into the atmosphere.

Biting my lip in response to the slowly-dulling pain in my back, I find myself standing up, further taking in my surroundings. Nothing felt real anymore—not even myself.

Once I'd taken a good twenty minutes or so absorbing the view of the flora—far too beautiful to be natural—, It dawned on me that I wasn't wearing my clothes. I was in clothes and all, but still, they weren't my clothes. I was wearing a puffy shirt, like a pirate. Damn it—what are those called again? A Poet shirt, maybe. I'm not sure. Over the poet shirt, I had a deep purple vest. Dear God, I think, I don't want this dream to ever end if this is what I get to wear. I absolutely love Victorian fashion.
Minutes turn to hours as I eventually find myself wandering, exploring every inch, nook, and cranny of this new land before it finally hit me—I'd completely lost track of time. No matter how wonderfully breathtaking this forest may appear to be, my sudden revelation brought my attention back to the inevitable. Something here was different. This felt too unreal. This felt too real.