“Yes. Lightning arcing across the sky over a dark ocean.” The poetic nature of the line disappears in how rehearsed it sounds. Not that it would be anything but, given how many times I’ve said those words now.
“Still black and white?” He asks without even looking up, pen still scratching the paper at the same pace.
“Yes.” I look away too then, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the next question. It takes longer than I would have liked, but I can’t really complain when the sessions aren’t something I’m personally paying for.
The pen stops and drops to the paper, a sound loud enough in the silence it might as well have clattered down to the floor with the way it draws my attention. “I wonder…just how visceral are these dreams? Do you remember any senses being stimulated other than sight? You’ve never mentioned the sound of thunder or the waves for instance. Nor the feeling of being wet for that matter.”
I pause before answering, sifting through the memories of the dream I’ve had running through my head near every night for the past three months. “Sound, yes. Though more like the static on a TV than those two things.” Like an audio cable gone bad, I think but don’t say. Already enough broken things before adding that into the mix. “I’m not sure if I’d feel wet or not, though. I’m not down in the water.”
He’s recording again as I speak, nodding along in encouragement but in his usual detached way. I can tell what I say last startles him, pen coming to a near instant on the notebook page. “That’s not…ahem.” He clears his throat before continuing. “Where are you then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
I hear the words of the question but don’t process them, mind too busy stuck on filling out the rest of the first sentence to its logical conclusion. Words that hurt, especially for someone in my position.
That’s not normal.
