“People think dreams aren’t real just because they aren’t made of matter, of particles. Dreams are real. But they are made of viewpoints, of images, of memories and puns and lost hopes.”
The only time I can be myself is in my dreams. Not the waking aspirations that tease me with promises of a better future but the phantasms my mind concocts in those brief hours of sleep. During those short bursts of merriment I am Addy; strong, confident, desired, free from the safety-bar of the mental health roller-coaster I find myself riding through the volatile hours of daylight.
In my dreams I can converse freely without fear of embarrassment or shame, walk unhindered through sunlit parks, greet strangers with kind words and believe in my abilities to the point of success.
Whenever I dream I always wake with a grin on my face, lost in the chance to be un-shackled from my waking insecurities and insanity. Something I last relished in on Sunday morning, after dreaming a quite odd little dream.
I walked into the brand spanking new three-story building with a cheeky grin plastered on my face. Every ounce of my being knew I would be walking out with a job in online publishing. My briefcase was empty, my qualifications non-existent, but the job was mine; all I needed was my quick-witted intellect and spell-blinding repartee.
Scaling the glass staircase past palm trees housing miniature monkeys and exotic flowers feeding hundreds of multi-coloured butterflies, I was met by a young woman with a red clipboard.
“Mr. Addy?” She said, with a slight Tasmanian brogue. ”Welcome to Intercourse.com. Follow me,”
With a sparkling smile I did, taking in the flock of Parakeets that frolicked in the wide open atrium above me. As we ascended to the second floor an Indian Elephant plunged his trunk into a mail trolley and began delivering the mail to each of the desks that littered the space. All around there was the hum of computers and the delightful symphony of click-clacking keyboards with various beautiful people glancing up from their work desks to greet me with a suspicious smile.
“Don’t mind Gertrude,” The young woman said, patting the elephant lovingly. “You get used to her,”
My interview was on level three, a single expansive office owned by the director of the organization; an imposing man with wide-set shoulders, a Commissioner Gordon style moustache and a new suit that the Emperor would be proud of. After complimenting him on his shoe-size the young woman departed to allow the interview to commence. Four hours of intensive interrogation later I was the proud owner of my own sleek, wooden desk nestled amidst the neatly kept gardens of the second floor.
Eager to work I threw myself into the routine of brainstorming, report writing, elephant fondling and fiery debate with aplomb. Unaware of my lack of qualifications, all but two of my colleagues accepted me with open arms; a twenty-something woman who was aware of the lies I’d used to secure the job and an arrogant thirty-something male who thought elephants and parakeets were un-necessary intrusions into what should have been a serious working environment.
The latter, Edgar, made it his purpose in life to destroy my career; poaching article ideas to pass them off as his own, hacking into my computer to re-edit my work so it was littered with spelling and grammatical mistakes and creating a fake Twitter identity to troll as if he were me.
The former, Francesca, would balance assistance and sabotage with equal determination; defending me spuriously from the Edgar’s attacks whilst simultaneously informing Emperor Gordon of my sabotaged mistake-riddled articles by providing him with printouts of the articles with all mistakes highlighted in red marker pen. All so could relish in my twice daily summoning to the third floor for corporal punishment; the regularity of these paddlings earning me the nickname Lee.
In spite of all this my courage and conviction saw me through. Shrugging off the punishments with well-timed jokes and refusing to allow the barrage of criticism to affect me in any way, shape or form, I began to flourish. Several of the pieces I put forward (The effect of diminishing cheese production n Indonesian Mice, Explainer: What is Tadpole Reflexive Disorder, The Climax Tax: How it will impact your relationship) became the most read articles on the site and, as a result, I began being sent on investigative assignments.
Such assignments involved conducting interviews and photography sessions with celebrities and public figures, often making use of Intercourse.com’s time bubble technology; a way to bounce through time and space to allow for increased research of historical incidents and conundrums.
It was during one of these assignments when Francesca, accompanied by her stowaway seven-year old daughter, became trapped in the past following an act of sabotage by my male-nemesis in the present. Unfortunately we had become marooned during the onset of the infamous Port Arthur spree shooting and I was shot four times in the buttocks after throwing myself upon my Francesca and child in a valiant act of protection/stupidity/selflessness.
Throwing me into the back of a taxi she told me to stop complaining and informed the driver to drop me at the hospital, thus beginning a 70s style car chase through the Tasmanian wilderness during which…
…I promptly woke up wondering what the hell my subconscious was playing at! Not that I was complaining, for that wonderful euphoric sensation was surging through me as I replayed the blissful memories my dream had provided.
A euphoric sensation I wish I could feel whilst waking.
Disclaimer: I do not, nor have ever wanted to, work for any organization that may or may not resemble the one contained within my dream. Also, I would also like to emphasize that I do not condone the use of corporal punishment within the workplace. Although saying that, some of the glaringly obvious errors contained within articles and news reports I’ve read online (weather instead of whether, seriously?) are probably deserving of a sound spanking.