After hours of slogging through reports, memos, documents, and other dull things, I fell asleep the instant I fell into bed, falling into a deep slumber. In my dreams, I imagined another life, as a revolutionary, a warrior, a tactician, and most importantly of all; somebody important. Fighting against the non-descript ‘police’ and other forces, me and my merry band of non-descript rabble-rousers began to plan how we would take over the city.
And then I awoke. A gruff hiss, as the dream slowly began to fade from my mind. Even despite my half-awake half-asleep state, I felt a strong interest in the dream, and made a conceited effort to hold onto it. Glumly pushing myself out of bed, likely the hardest part of the day, and making my way into the kitchen. Passing by a mirror in the hallway, I turn to look at myself. A shaggy man with a loose tie, over-sized shirt, and a grey complexion. Scoffing, I see the image of the man I was in my dream superimpose itself over me. Muscular, something I could only dream to be; donning a ripped jacket, belt of bullets draped over my shoulder Rambo style, and a complexion of happiness. Perhaps, the dream was telling me what I could become.
Or what I could have become.
Groggily pushing past the thought, I make my way to the kitchen. As I go about, grabbing a small piece of bread from the pantry, tossing it into the toaster, brewing a pot of coffee, I look up at the time. “4:78”, I’ve still got time, I think to myself; looking down for a moment. Whether due to my state of slight consciousness, or perhaps by some twist of fate, I begin to continue the dream, eyes closed, leant up against the counter.
My cooler self stands in the same kitchen I do, although war torn. Across from him, fifteen or so men and women of non-descript appearance stand with similar garb, all listening to him. “Here’s the plan.” My cooler self says. Out of pure spite, or rather, pure admiration, I nickname him “Rambo-me”.
“We hit the town hall! Grab the Frostbites, float over to the center of town, and show the mayor what for!” Rambo-me shouts. The others quickly cheering, and readying weapons. The sound of the toaster popping into the air awakens me to reality once more, as I open my eyes somewhat glumly. I grab the toast and quickly scarf it down like a ravenous badger, grabbing my suit coat off of the chair next to me. Pouring the miniscule amount of coffee I brewed into my thermos, and quickly take off, the clock reading “5:002”.
Running down the stairs of my one story apartment house, I arrive at the sidewalk, cars and busy folk lining the streets and sidewalks nearby. Passing by some derelict buildings, in my mind I envision a battle taking place. Dozens of those non-descript revolutionaries charging, weapon in hand, all lead by Rambo-me. Crossing a cross-walk, I pass by a group of policemen who are standing around what appears to be a bank, all frozen still. The sirens of their cars wail at an ear-piercingly slow rate, causing me and the many other busy folk around me to cover our ears. Even so, work is work, and I can’t risk getting writ up over being tardy. Passing them, the gang of masked robbers escaping into a manhole in the alley quickly. I shrug, as do some of the others whom notice along with me. As the sirens begin to steady in pace, I turn around to see the policemen entering their vehicles very relaxed, clearly uncaring. I shrug once more, continuing on my pace.
As I walk, I envision the battles of the revolution; my revolution, superimposing themselves onto the city itself. Passing by a group of near identical businessmen, I imagine them dropping their suitcases and pulling out rifles, joining the fight. Smirking to myself meekly, I speed up a bit, a herd of quadruple decker busses rolling down the intersection I’m crossing at great speed. Barely managing to avoid the herd, I look down at my watch, alongside everyone on the sidewalk with me. “5:003” it reads.
I continue on my pace, now only a block from my place of work. The battles superimposed in my mind begin to dwindle, as the Rambo-me begins to walk about a foot in front of me, clearly headed in the same direction I am. Arriving at the non-descript grey building that I call work, I hurriedly push myself through the spinning doors, and proceed up the elevator. As I press the button to floor “2.987”, at the same time as the Rambo-me does. Practically within each other, I step out into the office. I immediately head left, wading through a sea of cubicles, however, I realize that the Rambo-me has disappeared. Turning quickly, I catch a glimpse of his leg, heading in the opposite direction. On merely a whim, I chase after him. Turning through corner after cubicle, barely catching a glimpse of him each time, I eventually wind up at my bosses office. The door, cracked, the glass, shattered. Nervously, I push the door open.
Across from me, is me, or more accurately, “Rambo-me”, holding my short, stubby man of a boss up by the shirt collar. My breath stops short, as my boss squirms and wriggles, unable or unwilling to scream. Sighing, I walk over to the desk of my boss, grabbing an ink pen.
As my Rambo-me stands there, smiling, I rush him down. His smile quickly fades, as I lodge the ink pen in his eye, as he slowly fades away, into a pool of ink. My boss falls to the floor, readjusting his tie.
“Jones, you said this wouldn’t happen again!” He barks, angered.
“I know sir, it wasn’t intentional I swear!” I meekly respond, bowing in recompense.
“You’re on thin ice mister.” He responds, sitting down. I turn and leave his office quickly, as I hear him mumble behind me, “College interns, I swear,”.
Just when I had a good dream, I think to myself, making my way back to my cubicle.
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