Dreamception, part 1

Music’s blaring in the background indistinctly just like it does in the movies after the hero has been knocked down. Timbaland’s old cool songs I reckon, the ones that makes you want to jam and bust a move.

I’m in the center of the space where 5th year students hold their annual ceremonial ritual of beginner dancing, amateur yet impressive vocal cords abilities, and band-rocking the stage.

A few people are behind me in a V formation. I’m wearing baggy clothes: over-sized banana-republic sweat pants, Adidas’ tank top, and nikes. Have you spotted the irony yet?

Hold up… Am I a lead dancer? Wow… I’ve been day-dreaming about this since middle school when I looked like a walking bowling ball. I used to listen to RnB, rap, and pop music on a daily basis. Akon, Eminem, 50 cent, Kardinall Official, Usher, Keri Hilson, Ne-Yo, Justin Bieber, – Shame on me, I know – etc.

I’d walk around with headphones on, creating choreographies in my head. If there was a magical machine capable of replicating the synaptic signals hay-wiring the images into my brain and transmitting them onto a screen, I’d be a rich and a famous choreographer. I swear to God!

But it doesn’t work like that, does it? Sad. I just kept to my day-dreaming activities.

But wait, I’m not day-dreaming right now. What the heck is going on? I look left to right and see the crowd’s cheering and applauding. I look up and I see me and the crew on a huge screen. This is one hell of a show!

• « Focus mate. Are you dead? Are you asleep? Try to punch yourself in the crotch and see if it wakes you up. »
• « What? No? Wait. Who said that? HEY WHO SAID THAT? »
• « I’m you, moron. My twisted humor hasn’t revealed that much to your slow brain? »
• « What.the.hell? »

I cannot believe my eyes…

As my eyes lift from the ground up, they pick up brown dress shoes, navy blue slacks, a pink-ish dress shirt, a red bowtie, and my… face?

I’m in utter disbelief. There’s an over-dressed replica of ME in front of ME. He has the same wavy black hair, the same narrow eyes, the same beak-like nose, and the same small hands. He has my nice butt too! I must’ve been smoking a joint and I’m experiencing the after effects.

• « Shut up and focus moron. You’re obviously not dead otherwise you wouldn’t be able to talk to me because… HELLO I’M IN YOUR BRAIN! »
• « Why are you talking to me? »
• « For God’s sake, is this really how I sound in real life? What are you? A one-digit IQ toddler? I’m here trying to help you make sense of what you’re experiencing. DUH! »
• « Alright, alright, enough with the insults. I’ve enough insecurities already. And hold up, why am I submitting to you? »
• « MORON FOCUS! »
• « Fine. But this isn’t over half-wit. »
• « There’s that spark. Atta boy! Now, onto the main issue. We have eliminated the theory of your death. That leaves us with three other options: you’re either asleep, unconscious, or in a prolonged coma. »
• « Okay, sounds legit. But why is my brain displaying this particular scene? Isn’t it unable to project pictures of things that it hadn’t seen yet? »
• « True. But It has already registered all these pictures in your mind and combined them together in this particular scene. Look closely, you’ll figure out what I’m saying. Wait, let me pause right here. Get closer. Alright, look at Safraoui’s face and clothes. Haven’t you seen her make the same face and wear the same clothes before? Now look at Youssef, haven’t you seen him wear the same clothes and stand in that Cristiano-Ronaldo-like pose? Are you following my trail of thoughts? »
• « Right, right. But hey, I don’t own those sweat pants, nor that tank top. How do you explain that? »
• « I’m rolling my eyes so hard I think I’ve seen my retina. YOU’VE SEEN THEM WHILE WINDOWN SHOPPING ONLINE MORON. »
• « Calm down man. Jeez. »
• « I’m you, man. How dare you question yourself? »
• « Touché. Sorry. Alright, so, what is this? What’s my brain trying to do? »
• « He’s trying to walk you down through memory lane. He’s testing you dude. Can’t you see it? You’re trapped. Ugh… You’re unbelievably clueless. Let me bring it down to you: You’re in a prolonged coma and if you’d like to wake up again or EVER, you’ve to pass your brain’s test. I’ve said enough already. From now on, you’ll get nothing out of me but riddles and hints because, DUH, you’ve got to figure it out on your own. »
• « My brain is such a… Penis! Fine. I’m ready for whatever that prick throws at me. »
• « Yeah right, whatever. Follow me »

In a blink of an eye, it became pitch black. A surge of adrenaline rushes through my entire body. This is no time for a fight or flight response. I’m afraid of the dark. I have been since I was a child and I couldn’t get over it. I try to calm myself down. Maybe this is one of my brain’s tests. Maybe, he’s trying to get me over my fear of the dark. That would make him a good guy with unusual ways and extreme conditions. I could stay in a prolonged coma stasis for the rest of my life. Who am I kidding? The doctors would just give up and pull the plug, a literal one, on me.

I steady my breath, by remember some Yoga tricks to balance myself. I close my eyes for a second and when I open them… I’m in a street fight?

Someone’s throwing a punch at me and I duck on instinct. Phew… That Body Combat training had finally come in handy. I’ve seen this place before. I know this guy. I’ve been wanting to bash his face for hitting on my girlfriend for ages. Sounds like I’m starring in my own martial arts movie, directed by my sadistic brain. Alright, brain, what do you want me to do so I could pass your test?

If I hit back, that might mean that I’m an aggressive person with anger issues who sees violence as a viable option to solving problems. Well, yeah I think violence is a viable option for solving problems, SOMETIMES. I’m not an aggressive person though. He swung at me first so, if I swing back that would be considered self-defense. I like my lawyer-like reasoning. I lean back as a semi-circular hook grazes my nose and I instantly grab his extended hand, turn on my heels and judo-slam him on the cement floor. The sound of his back pummeling the ground sends goosebumps down my spine. Maybe I could’ve countered in a less devastating way?

Who cares? The dude’s a projection.

And there he is. That snob, smug-faced me shaking his head in disapproval like black women do in the movies.

• “What now?”
• “You’re supposed to care even if he’s just a projection. You failed this test. However, your brain is a charitable organ so, he’s giving you another chance to rectify your misdemeanor. But be careful, I don’t know how much generosity our brain is capable of. “

And poof, he is gone again. Great! Thanks for the heads up, prick.