To Sleep, Perchance to Dream . . .

This is one of the 13 short stories in my Echoes of the Mind's Eye collection (c) 2011, 2021

I am not insane, of that fact I’m certain. It matters little that nobody reading this will believe it. Frankly, I don’t much care. My death will hardly be noticed. I’m not even sure why I’m writing this; ostensibly it is to leave a warning, some vital information which is quite valuable--if it is believed. But I guess it is also out of a childish need for reassurance that I leave this testimonial. I suppose I’d pray if I believed in God. How comforting that would be, to simply go to bed, close my eyes and put everything in the hands of some benevolent deity. If only I still had even the illusion of hope.

No matter. I just want to make it clear: I am sober, lucid and drug free, facts the toxicology tests that will doubtless be performed on me post mortem will clearly verify. And I hope this letter will convince you that no illness or natural cause can explain my condition--that the coma I’m sure to lapse into as soon as I am no longer able to remain awake has no physiological cause and is not rooted in some infirmity. Please, please believe that; the hope that you may is the only remaining source of comfort in these waning moments of my life.

I’m sorry if I ramble; I’ll try to be concise. I’m so damned tired, though; I’ve not slept in twenty days. That’s ironic. It’s a new record. Nobody’s been able to stay awake that long before--others who’ve tried cracked in little more than a week. But then, their lives did not hang in the balance between sleep and wakefulness. In any case, it will end soon.

But to the point. It all started just over a month ago. I mean the nightmares--at least that’s what they seemed to be at first. God, it felt good to wake up the first few times and know it was only a dream. I never fully appreciated the absolute bliss that awakening from a bad dream brings in its delectable deliverance from the unimaginable inner horrors of the sleeping mind; there is no pleasure quite like being rent up from the bowels of hell, squeezed up through the narrow, shimmering tunnel of our emerging consciousness to a rebirth in the warm safety of a familiar bed, the light of a new day pushing nightmarish images back into the shadows of the subconscious mind, calming the frenzied hammering in our chest back to blissful quiescence. It had never occurred to me to be thankful at such times before, or even to revel in the delicious feeling of dissipating tension as fear fades, its effects lingering in the awakening consciousness, with adrenaline still pumping and the heart pounding in a chest seemingly too small to contain it. I’d gladly sell my soul, had I one to sell, to experience that indescribable relief once more.

As I said, it appeared to me about a month ago that something was really wrong. I’d had nightmares before, of course, but not like this one. It was so devastatingly real that it took me quite some time to shake it off upon awakening. And it returned the following night, and every night thereafter until I stopped going to sleep after nearly a dozen repeat performances, when it became clear to me that the inhabitants of my dreams intended to take over my consciousness.

I know how that sounds; I’m not yet quite past the point of reason. I would also immediately dismiss anyone making such a ridiculous statement. But then, when you read this you will have some objective proof--my comatose body. Please keep an open mind.

The nightmares I speak of were recurring, but not repetitive, as if some sort of continuing drama were being played out in my head every night. I don’t want to digress further by giving endless detail. The gist of it is as follows. I am held captive in a windowless, doorless cubicle that constantly changes in size to accommodate the beings who visit me there. I am unable to move and find myself sitting, in a reclined position or lying down, depending on the whim of my captors.

My captors, by the way, are not “nightmarish” creatures; they are for the most part quite human. I can recognize some of the languages they speak--German, Spanish, Catalan, Galician, French and Italian, among some others I cannot place. They visit me at will, materializing individ­ually and in groups into my little cubicle which expands as needed to encompass them. Some are dressed in almost contemporary garb, others in anachronistic styles and a few sport only a thick pelt of hair over muscular torsos and look more like gorillas than men or women.

The first two nights of my recurring dream, I’d merely spent watching a seemingly endless parade of human and nearly human forms that came to observe me, sometimes caressing, poking or pushing my motionless body as if to reassure themselves of the reality of my existence. On the third night, a group approached me and, after discussing me at length amongst themselves in various languages, one of its members addressed me in Spanish, my native tongue. My questioner identified himself as a Spaniard, yet his version of Castilian Spanish was unlike any variant spoken in any region of contemporary Spain. Nor did it bear a resemblance to the many, easily identifiable variants spoken in modern day South and Central America. He questioned me on politics, science, philosophy, and aesthetics. I had to answer; I was not coerced in any way, but I felt a compulsion as though I were under a hypnotic trance, all the while remaining fully conscious and alert.

The same thing went on for the following two nights: the group questioned me, with the same questioner acting as interpreter. By then I began to have a notion as to the purpose for their queries. From the questions they asked, and from what I could pick up from the discussions they held amongst themselves, at least the ones I could understand in English, Spanish, Italian or Galician, and, to a lesser extent, French, I theorize that these beings have lived before. Some part of that which made them unique as individuals apparently remains imprinted in a collective consciousness that is encoded into my subconscious mind, perhaps imprinted in my genetic code itself. I know that makes no sense, but it is nevertheless true. I have untold numbers of past consciousnesses living within me, normally subjugated to my conscious mind, yet nevertheless ever-present and self-aware.

That’s what scares the hell out of me, even now when little matters; in a way, I am thousands, perhaps millions of different people. They, or perhaps more accurately we, coexist and are only marginally aware of each other. Physically, they probably inhabit the major portions of our brain for which science cannot divine specific purpose. There is an apparent line of demarcation separating the two--a zone we cannot normally cross. Perhaps this is part of the instinct for self-preservation; without it, we’d go insane. In my case, my partners-in-self broke through in a manner I can’t understand, much less articulate. But I know that they managed to bend the rules, not break them; whatever kink in my psychic armor allowed them through does so only at the level of the subconscious, when my defenses are lowered. They can’t reach me in a state of wakefulness, although I sometimes feel them reaching out when my mind wanders or when I feel myself drifting off into sleep. The separation between the two minds seems clear from my counterparts’ intense interest in, and lack of knowledge about, matters with which I am intimately familiar, such as current events.

Perhaps that is the reason for our need to sleep--a sort of tradeoff to the others within us. The subconscious, from my experience, seems to function on the level of memory. It can allow its inhabitants only an imperfect sense of self, and then only when it is able to independently function over the watchful eye of the conscious mind. It’s common knowledge that there is no scientific explanation for our need to sleep. Yet I’ve always needed more sleep than most; perhaps that is because my subconscious mind is stronger than the norm, and my conscious mind is proportionately weaker. In that way, my subconscious demands a greater portion of time in which to assume an active role in our mind-sharing relationship.

My experience also gives me some insight into what makes certain people highly creative, and why there seems to be a notable correlation between elevated levels of creativity and mental instability. Highly creative people tend to be less stable than the norm; they appear to be more susceptible to both mental illness and addiction disorders. Perhaps the reason is that a strong subconscious allows them access to a sort of collaborative effort as they share the input of consciousnesses not their own. But that is a dangerous and equivocal communion. A thin line separates genius and madness, and I feel certain from what I’ve seen of the others within me that there are forces of both good and evil, the best and worst of all who’ve lived before seem to be represented. The effect is that the extremes cancel each other out and a sort of ethical nihilism appears to prevail and guide the processes of that huge mind pool. The sense of self, however, is strong within the individual parts that form the whole, and seeks an outlet.

Therein lies the greatest danger, and there the root of my undoing. Unless the conscious mind is strong, which mine apparently is not, the subconscious can encroach upon it as it seeks to perfect its splintered sense of identity into a more recognizable form. Generally, this happens when a strong part of the subconscious takes control. In my case, however, there is clearly a joint effort involved; I will not be “possessed” by one or several dominant individual identities who could push back my own identity into the subconscious. Rather, my own conscious mind will be shared by all, to everyone’s benefit but mine.

I am too tired to much care that what I have said will doubtless sound insane. I know I can’t hold out much longer against the others’ power. I feel myself being pulled in and am too drained to resist much longer. My mind is clear, but I know it’s only quickly burning itself out, a lifetime of psychic energy used up in a few weeks of futilely trying to dam up the irresistible incoming tide. I feel myself floating, even as I write these lines. I’m losing consciousness; time is slowly dilating as my senses ebb away.

A month ago I would have dismissed what I am writing here as the mad ramblings of someone who had read Jung and Freud while drunk and standing on his head. I’m not trying to philosophize or indulge in self-analysis. Actually, my view of psychology is that it’s mostly nonsense; I view the average psychiatrist as a tri-part mixture of scientist, snake oil salesman, and telephone psychic who bills by the minute and banks on the credulity of his or her clients.

Oh, yes, I tried seeking help several weeks ago. I spent a considerable rainy-day fund; what the hell, I had no other use for it anyway. I got referrals to several psychiatrists and an analyst; the latter said, in essence, that my inner conflict was rooted in a classic Oedipal complex, and that the reason I could not sleep was the guilt I felt over a transparent wish to make love to my dead mother. She suggested, among other things, therapy which would include therapeutic love-making sessions with her at $1,000 dollars per hour. The other psychiatrists were somewhat more helpful, if somewhat less honest about the nature of their profession, but the treatment they recommended would take many months before any palpable effect of their pharmacological arsenals could be discerned. One prescribed shock treatment (with a straight face and long explanation about the renaissance of this wonderful and altogether misunderstood treatment that would have been the pride of any grand inquisitor had science or the devil provided such a tool to the precursors of that ancient learned profession), and two others suggested I voluntarily check into a sleep clinic for observation and treatment; and, of course, they all prescribed sleeping pills. I can’t really blame them, though; I wouldn’t have believed me either. In any case, I soon realized I was on my own.

I’m so damned sleepy. And resigned. Let them win. They mean me no harm; it’s as much a matter of survival for them as it is for me. I’ll still be me, somewhere in that cubicle, able to think and speak with them, for as long as my body continues to function. I’ve made a living will requiring that no extraordinary measures be undertaken to prolong my life. In this state, it will be honored. But I can’t request they take my life; euthanasia laws are anathema in this country as they interfere with the profitability of the health care business. Even if that were not the case, they wouldn’t apply; after all, I’ll soon only be in a coma, not suffering from a painful terminal condition that would justify a mercy killing. I’d take my own life. I should, in fact, but that would only make me into a nut case and my death would have no meaning.

It feels good to be doing something altruistic in the end, even if it turns out to be in vain. Doubtless a psych consult would conclude I am delusional and suffering from some sort of martyr complex. I trust the public will embrace a kinder diagnosis.

Time is definitely relative when it comes to the subconscious. The conventional wisdom is that dreams are really quite short in duration and that we have many of them every night, though we remember but a few, or none. Some, however, believe that we can dream the same dream for many hours. In either case, anyone with the ability to recollect dreams vividly knows that they can seem to last days, years or even a lifetime, yet all in the space of minutes in “real time.” The comatose can live for many years without life support equipment, and I’m only thirty two years old. At least I’ll be giving new life to countless others for a subjective eternity. And I know I won’t be harmed; the others are at least partially, and perhaps exclusively, my own ancestors all the way back to the beginning of my line.

How ironic, to know there is no God, no hope for redemption, and that hell lurks just beneath the surface of consciousness itself in all of us. A favorite tag line of mine that reflects my sardonic humor is simply that Hobbes was an optimist. Indeed, it seems I was right, but the joke’s on me, for life in the state of nature is not only brutal, painful and brief but it has the capacity to continue subjectively ad infinitum in each living human being. God may be dead, but it is not by any means lonely in a world without a prime mover; quite the contrary, it’s too damned crowded within us all.

If you still do not believe me, then there is only one more thing I can say: search for other egos within you and you will soon learn they are there. And if you lack the resolve to do so, then look for them in your children and children’s children, for it is they who have the weakest boundaries between the conscious and subconscious minds and in that porous condition you can best observe their other selves as they struggle to form their own conscious identities, bursting forth and asserting themselves when you least expect it.

Still not convinced? Well, time will prove me right. I have no children, but have contributed my genetic material to several sperm banks in the last month; you see, I too want to live again, if only in the subconscious minds of some future descendants; it is the only form of immortality we can have, and, much more importantly for me, the only way to prove my claim.

Look within your children, those of you who receive the anonymous gift of life, for I will try with all my energy to manifest myself in future generations. I know now that it can be done, and I will attempt to prove it through my issue in every generation as yet unborn.

Reviews

[Lune]

This was frankly amazing. My eyes, scanning the screen of the computer as fast as it could. Firstly, the title caught my eye and instilled a sense of curiosity in me. This was an incredibly engaging story and a read that will stick with me. The writing style was so distinct and procured my interest to a great extent.

Lines that I found compelling:
" I’d gladly sell my soul, had I one to sell"
"my own conscious mind will be shared by all, to everyone’s benefit but mine"

All in all this was a very captivating story and I'm pleased to have found this. I hope to read more of your work in the near future.

[Victor D. Lopez]

Thank you for your incredibly generous and kind words. Much appreciated! I've posted other complete stories from my Echoes of the Mind's Eye collection and will continue doing so for all 13 stories as well as other samples of my poetry and fiction. Unlike my non-fiction, these are not widely read, but are important if only to me. Thanks again for your kind words.