Obsidian

            There are no dreams in this world.

            You put your head to your pillow, close your eyes, and sink into a bottomless obsidian. No thoughts exist there, no worries, no memories.

Where do you go when you fall asleep in this world? It’s almost like asking, where does your computer go when it hibernates?

            Nowhere.

            You don’t feel in dreams. You can’t.

Or can you?

            I should mention that there are dream simulators. They sell them in little packets at drug stores now, behind locked glass cases. (NOTE: Today, every child is fitted with a standard USB port at 18 months, called a Mastoid Port, or MP for short. It’s placed behind the right ear and it’s as natural as an ear piercing and has many uses. Dream simulators look something like mini flash drives that you plug into your MP).

These simulators come in a large variety of genres: high school parties, wars, childhood memories that you never had, travelling to other countres, falling in love (always requited of course), and even nightmares for the horror enthusiasts. It’s like watching a movie from first person point of view. Thing is, once you’ve seen 50 movies, you’ve seen them all, and after a while, simulators don’t satisfy you anymore. Companies picked up on this, and at one point, they made simulators that allowed you to share dreams with others, almost like an MMO. But those were banned a mere 7 months after they hit the market. Too many users died due to “overdose” where they just refused to leave the dream state. You can still buy those types of dream simulators, from the same low profile sellers you’d get heroine from, complete with glitches and poor quality. But hey, anything to get away from here, right?

I mean, think about it. It’s a nasty world to be in, one where you can’t dream for yourself. The dreams they sell behind locked glass cases are all shadow government approved, shadow government constructed, and shadow government limited.

That’s another thing about today’s world I guess. Saysul once gifted me an ancient newspaper dated all the way back to 2007 AD for my name day (I have no idea how she managed to get her hands on it, or how much of a fortune it cost her). There was one article in it that described a group of people’s theories on how the government was controlling the media, staging terrorist attacks on itself, and watching everyone.

It made me laugh bitterly. I wonder how “Stanley Alexander”, author of that article would have felt if he knew that today’s shadow government had micro-chips implanted in cats to help keep tabs on its people.

This “Stanley Alexander”, who was so upset about his government manipulating his reality TV shows, doesn't know about today’s shadow government that manipulates my dreams. “Stanley Alexander”, the government controls the food I eat, the papers I read, the websites I search, the history I’m told and even the stupid TV I don’t watch.

“Stanley Alexander”, the shadow government is in my head, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Sudden disappearances are not something uncommon today. That ancient newspaper I told you about? Saysul disappeared three hours after she gave it to me. I got a letter from her saying that she joined The Draft. Aledar, a mutual friend, had gotten the same letter, supposedly written by Saysul. And when we went to Saysul’s house to “investigate”, her mother had no idea who we were referring to.

“Saysul?” she had asked. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

That’s when I noticed that the photo on the mantle contained a picture of Saysul’s parents. The same picture had once contained a smiling Saysul, too. I looked at Aledar, and his eyes were fixed on the same photo. We apologized to Saysul’s mother for interrupting her evening, and we took our leave.

I knew then. “Efficient, Omnipotent, and Powerful”. That was our shadow government’s motto. They had taken Saysul, like they took so many others before her, and they had erased her mother’s memories. We knew the truth. We knew. And we did nothing.

I haven’t heard from Aledar since that evening, although I see him from time to time at the market. He never speaks to me, and I can understand why. He blames me for Saysul. I blame myself, too.

I didn’t cry that day, though. I hadn’t cried, ever, so I know nothing of tears. But I felt something take root in my chest: something dark, cold, calculating, and consuming. It was only a speck, just a seed, but it was enough. It was the first time I had tasted anger, and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

Two weeks later, I filled out my application for The Draft.

A standard Mastoid Port (MP).

... to be continued.