VivianVector

A very vivid dream with high continuity. My dreaming personality is a little more extravagant and dramatic than my waking personality. I also have a nice little freak-out when I forget that in a dream, people communicate telepathically/empathically. Weirdly enough, it is only when I type this entry up six months later that I realise that the family at the end are very familiar.

--- --- --- --- ---

I was in a large, detailed town. The landscape was shaped like a bubble, with the edges of the town curving up towards the sky as though it were situated within a basin. The town proper was quite dense and centralised, comprised of public buildings and several private homes. Apartment complexes stretched up the far side of the basin on the outskirts of the town. I had a home here, several levels tall. I shared it with room mates. Behind my home were several statelier buildings and quiet winding streets.

My recall begins in my bedroom on the top floor. The town is sunny and pleasant, but I am routinely aware of a presence observing me through one of the windows. When I look out, my vision zooms to a location on the other side of the town. I see a shadow shift on a ledge as someone leaves the area, but I am not fast enough to catch a glimpse of my observer.

I walk out onto my balcony. It overlooks a public sports oval. There is a crowd gathered there, some of their number are wearing costumes. They are rehearsing for an event the next day where many would come to revel in their self-pity and cling to their vices. They were a harmless lot, ultimately likeable, but foolish. For many years I had known them well, and counted myself as one of them, but no longer.

I return inside. I am with a small group of my friends, none of whom I know in the waking world. They are all male and dressed in Victorian-era clothing. They seem taken aback when I announce that I will not be joining the festivities this year.
"Tomorrow, I will be out on my balcony, smoking. If anyone should care to join me, then they would be most welcome," I say, taking a puff from my cigar. One of the younger gentlemen piped up in response.
"Smoking? Whatever for?"
"For grandeur." I declare. They chuckle. My closest friend is sitting beside me. He shakes his head at me, but laughs all the same.

I go outside onto a lower balcony with him. The evening air is enlivening. I get a better look at him now that we are alone. He is a spritely, middle-aged man with a grand moustache and a quick wit. He is always impeccable dressed, but never too extravagant. He sits in silence, drawing from a large, glowing cigar.
"I'm going to miss these, you know," I say to him, fondly lighting a cigar of my own.
I look out across the town. The lights are off in the apartments across the basin, but the town below is still full of life.

I find myself down in the town proper. Three single-levelled buildings are arranged around a common square. The left-most structure is the workshop of a local artist and jewellery designer. She has wicked red hair, and a strong but gentle presence. I notice a young girl smoking cigarettes and dawdling around her building. When the girl finished smoking, the artist burst from her workshop and berated the girl for the lingering smell.

I had known better, but it struck me as odd that I had already known without being told. I walk around the side of the building. One of my teachers approaches, a wise woman, well-revered by the town. I addressed my concern to her in regards to my own foresight. I was so shocked that I could know what somebody had been thinking without interacting with them. The artist was passing by as I was speaking, and stopped out of curiosity. I had asked the wise woman many questions in the past, but this one surprised her. They exchanged a curious glance, and then looked back at me, puzzled. I felt that it wasn't my experience that they found bizarre, but why now I should fail to understand it.

I was going somewhere. I would lose something.

"We should sit over there and have a smoke," a youthful friend suggested to me. I had been deep in thought. We were in a large hall with others, waiting for the rain to pass. Night had fallen and I had been gazing out the great, vast windows before me. This was a familiar place.
"They're covered in water," a female friend replied. She was right. A few benches were situated on the wooden verandah outside. It artistically swept around the extended wings of the house. But for all its clever design, the walkway did not extend far enough and the eaves were too shallow; rain water dripped down onto the benches.

I returned home, sharing a few friendly words with my house mates. I proceeded upstairs to my hammock. I was uneasy about the open window through which I could be viewed, but was relieved to find it had already been closed and the blind pulled down.

The dream shifts, and I am on the rear-most carriage of a speeding train, right where I expected to be. I had caught this train many times before, and even had a good rapport with the rear guard. I rushed to the back of the train. Below the raised platform where the guard would sit, there was a thick, steel archway with a blue, metal door. It served little purpose other than my own.

I was reaching my end, somehow content with my own undoing. I had known this was coming for a while, and now the time had come to the face the music. I began to speak, a conversation I can hardly remember.
"We all come to our end eventually, don't we?" I say.
"What do you mean?" the guard replied from above. I rushed behind the door and fastened it behind me. The train was picking up speed, but I wanted to delay my moment of passing for just a few minutes longer.
"We degrade, don't we? It's a natural process. Why should we fight it? Would it not be more logical to embrace this demise?" I continued my rhetoric. I had already resolved that it would be this way, and chosen this place because it would quicken the process. Despite my verbose monologuing, my stomach still sank when I began to see the effects unfolding before me.

I held out my left arm and rolled back the sleeve. It was fading away, turning bony and pale, but also ethereal; shrinking and vanishing before my eyes. I tried to remove my watch, but it too was disappearing and hanging limply around my skeletal wrist.
"Surely it would be better not to fight it, don't you think?" I asked to my final witness, captivated by the sight before me.
"I'm sorry, I didn't quite hear what you said," the guard replied. I was snapped from my self-indulgent trance. The wind was roaring, but the guard's ears were keen. They heard every one of my final words, knew in their heart that I was misguided, and would feign deafness now rather than extend advice. My ego was inflamed.

We were slowing past a station. I deftly rolled from the train and skidded for some metres before coming to a stop near a family of three waiting patiently with their luggage. The train slowed to a halt beside me, the guard and driver both now in the engine. The guard, while distinctly the same person, was now a young female with straight brown hair. I stood up and marched over to them in rage.
"Fuck you, you piece of shit!" I screamed. They seemed rather unfazed.
Though still angry, the next few moments were filled with remorse for my behaviour. I felt compelled to apologise to the mundane folk - a rotund man and his wife - for shouting obscenities in front of their son.