Two slices of sourdough and a moving train
There’s something comforting about eating bread at 4 o’clock in the morning. It’s like all the dreams, all the nightmares, have faded away and are replaced by the all-absorbing comfort of soft dough and chewy crust. Chew and swallow. And write. That’s all I have to do this morning, I tell myself.
But the bread soon runs out — my stomach can only take so much — and I’m left thinking about last night. In the dark, remnants of my dreams return. A pale, thin man has been trying to engage me in conversation for the last five minutes. I am anxious about a meeting that has appeared in my calendar, and which I seem to be late for. He has his own reasons for taking the 11 o’clock train; the dream does not elaborate. He keeps looking at me, wanting to articulate something, but I fob him off. And then he does it. He jumps. I see him leave the carriage, face first, and disappear while the moving train continues its journey. Part of me hopes this dream man has super-human powers and has merely run off into the bushes on some mysterious errand. The other part of me imagines his crumpled and broken body by the side of the tracks, hidden in long grasses near the station platform, so that no one will find him for hours, though they will find him eventually. And then, of course, instead of sounding the alarm, I wake up.
Why do I dream these things? Mostly, I don’t remember the wanderings of my mind in the rapid-eye-movement phase of sleep. But then there are moments like this; tiny glimpses of a guilty conscience buried under my waking façade. I push them down again and think about the bread, with its doughy centre, dripping in olive oil.
The warmth of the fan heater lulls me into a renewed sense of security and I soak up its energy before putting on the coffee. Only a few hours until sunrise.
