I hate active Dreams. I always wake up exhausted, confused (more so than normal) and with a feeling of displacement. It's worse because it was so real. And being a firm believer in dreams being resonance of your subconsciousness, they always bother me when I remember them. This is what I remember:
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Paul stamped out a cigarette in the ashtray as he turned from the blaring television screen: "Fourty-six year old Paul Hi-Tsang has been nominated by the glorious and caring government to participate in the shipping of special important industrial goods up the Xiao Ming River, we congratulate him for signing such a prosperous deal with our lovable government."
It's all about what they don't tell you isn't it, Paul muttered to himself. What they didn't tell you, was that the Government was going to burn down his freight company after the transportation had finished, just like they did to his associates company further down river.
Paul was alone on the bridge of his freight ship, surrounded by special equipment, provided by the government to ensure the security of their goods. Paul sighed. The technology which has burdened his humble ship has relinquished not only his crew, but also his command over the ship. He had been stripped down, and been appointed as a mere janitor of his own ship.
Xiao Ming was a young river, shallow, rough and rendered yellow by the clay which made it's sea bed. It was a long trip up the river, taking almost a week to sail any ship to the first port, so it didn't come to surprise Paul that it would take his fully burdened ship almost a month to make the trip. So, having such a long time, imprisoned onboard the ship, he decided to explore the government's goods.
The cargo hold looked massive, a lot larger than he remembered. He walked along each blue grey freight container, opening and inspected the contents of each one. Each container contained the same assortment of boxes: shoebox sized white cardboard boxes, large wooden crates, and long, thin ceramic cases. But even though each contained had the same type of boxes, they were always stacked differently to the next.
Paul, having inspected through the first twenty, decided to open a box to satisfy his curiosity. He selected a white shoebox at random. He pulled open the lid, feeling the soft vacuum as air rushed to envelope the space once empty. Paul laughed. In the box contained a small figurine of a poorly modelled lion, still encased in it's poor graphically designed packaging. Paul put it back, and selected the long thing ceramic case nearby. It was hefty in his hands, so he was delicate with it. The lid was on firmly. He risked a little bit more force. The lid jumped open, cutting his index finger, tainting the pure surface with red. Paul sucked on his finger as he inspected the contents. It was the complete collection of beautifully painted tin colonial soldiers, each unique to it's own, each face slightly different, each uniform slightly more ruggered, or pressed than the other. They were a work of a wonderful craftsmen.
"Hey Paul!" called a voice from behind. It was Conrad. God, Paul thought, he was the most annoying person he had ever met. Conrad appeared from behind a rack of unrecognisable black polo t-shirts, wearing a baby blue rain coat and his beloved cream Country Road bag. "Hey Paul!" he said again enthusiastically. "I just saw Saving Private Ryan, it was like the best movie ever."
"You know what's a good War movie? Full Metal Jacket." Paul said assertively, as Conrad caught up with my pace towards the other end of the hold.
"Oh, but in Saving Private Ryan, on the D-Day scene at the start! It was so scary and frightening, could you imagine exactly what the solider's were going through, it was fantastic."
Paul saw Simon sitting amongst some unrecognisable friends, sitting on a coach, being mesmerised by the television screen and gory violent console game. Paul greeted him.
"There's a free spot over there, " Simon indicated to his left with a head nod, "Jump on, help me out here." Paul looked over and saw George place a controller on top of a bean bag and wondered off, chewing on a ham and cheese sandwich. I hurried over and held the controller in my hands. The warmth, sweat, excitement and blood from the previous user resonated into my hands. Paul looked up at the field of swaying grass that lay before him. The smell of dirt, spring and decay infiltrated his senses. He quickly lay on his stomach and checked the heavy carbine that lay in his hands. Crawling slowly forward, he squinted and spotted a crows nest.
"Paul, nice of you to join us, proceed to Bravo Della 4122 and join up with Simon, he's requesting backup," commanded Alan staring out into the seemingly empty field with a pair of binoculars. "Ken here will watch your back" he said indicated to a solider in that lay motionless next to him with a large scoped rifle on his shoulder. Paul nodded without a sound and ran down towards his designated area.
"Hey Simon, I'm behind you" I whispered, gently tapping the heel of his boot. He had his stomach on the ground too, but had his sights firmly at the crossroad that lay before us.
"They'll be coming in soon, command says that there will be three full trucks of them"
Paul nodded and set up his camouflage.
The sun was setting when Paul heard the rumbling in the distance. He looked up and saw the three trucks he had been expecting. His heart raced. He frowned. He heard singing. It was the school anthem. Paul put it out of his mind and aligned his sights on the truck.
The vehicle approached. It's mounted cannon fired. Paul couldn't feel his legs.
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And that's when I woke up. My dreams are funny though, they always replay themselves constantly, each scene repeating themselves at least a few times, each time a little different, adding a little bit more detail, or sometimes changing the events completely. But every time I awake a little bit more disturbed. I'm a freak. I'm insane. It's sad.
