"I can't seem to dream directly anymore," I said, gazing at the ceiling. Anticipating the psychiatrist's obligatory response, I went on. "By which I mean: I only dream of people dreaming of something. I would be walking down a quay - a gray, uninteresting, lifeless quay - and I would meet someone sitting patiently on a bench, as if only waiting for me to pass by. It's always a different person, but always someone I've never met before. Then this person describes a dream they've had to me. An invariably colorful affair which allows for deep insights and introspection. Meaning..." Still gazing at the ceiling, I linger. A silence ensues. Finally the psychiatrist spurs me on. "Meaning?" In spite of myself, I sigh. "Meaning I need a third party to dream for me." I can hear the psychiatrist is scribbling notes, though I'm still not looking at him. After a while he asks: "Would you describe yourself as a loner?" Somewhat shocked by the use of such an untechnical and pejorative term, I jerk my eyes away from the ceiling ties and focus them on the man in front on me. "Uhm," I stutter, "I guess so." Adding, after some consideration, "I guess people would describe me as such." But would you, he asks. "Yes, I do often prefer solitude," I conclude resolutely. "Good. That is enough resolution for you to figure this one out," the man says and he stands up as if to say we're done. Doubtful but obedient, I shake his hand and walk out the room more confused than when I arrived."
"And then I woke up," I conclude the dream. "And surely now you must see my predicament. Because, I'm sure you'll agree, the scene at the end of that dream plays in a room quite similar to this, under circumstances quite similar to these." I make a vague gesture around the room. "And I don't know if you noticed, but I found myself trying to focus on you while telling this story, or even on my shoelaces or the clock behind you, or the motivational posters above your desk, but whatever I tried, I couldn't stop myself from looking up at that goddamn ceiling. So I guess my confusion is in this: how should I know what is real and what isn't anymore. I've lost track and I question myself at every street corner. And no, I don't believe in the power of pinching. Please, please, please help me out, sir!" Again, I find myself looking upwards and when I correct this and fix myself on the psychiatrist, I see to my surprise that his face is red and he is throwing a tantrum. "I told you before to stop coming to me with this story, over and over again!" As he shouts this he gets up, dropping the notes on his lap, and storms out the room, slamming the door behind him. I am left behind utterly bewildered, and I remain like this for at least ten minutes, wondering if he'll come back and explain. He doesn't. I finally walk out of that room and the building in a haze of stray, unfinished thoughts. On my way out, I think I saw a dwarf leisurely floating around in the top-left corner of the waiting room, but I'm not entirely sure.
