Chapter One: Percy's Hypothesis
Part 1.1 - Hypnagogia
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To some his theories were mentally expansive and wholly unique. To others they were trite, childish, and bourgeois. To Percevil Qwinstin they were the beginning of a personal revolution. To all living, whether capable of experiencing the change or not, they were the most destructive force this universe has ever known.
Quite literally anything could have dissuaded him from the series of events that lead to his shattering conclusions: a cup of coffee pulled one less turn around the porcelain, the bark of a stray dog redirecting his gaze, and also etcetera and also etcetera. Forever and ever, amen. In every other version such an instance did dissuade him. But, in this version, in this single verse alone, Percy had made a monumental discovery about the nature of reality. For life is but a dream, Percy felt he could prove it, and night by night he was growing increasingly lucid.
But, what to do about it? Write a book? Blather on whilst stationed in the town square in a feverish bid for urgent action from the mentally emaciated known as Mom or Friend or Colleague? Or maybe just take it low and slow, monitoring the results of his hypothesis in a systematic manner that would result in a data set to be compiled in a paper: a paper sure to create societal schism throughout the whole of academia. After all, the war has been raging for aeons and his midterms were coming soon. The choice emerged and that particular path codified in spacetime. His revolution would have to wait.
His professors had high hopes for their young pupil whom they saw as “a good egg” and “awaiting massive amounts of positive karma”, but was ultimately reviled as “unconventional” and having “too many of his own ideas”. Luckily for me he had long since adopted a tenet that goes a little something like this: If original thought is to be had then all known knowledge must eventually be disavowed. Of this he was resolute. Unfortunately for him this tenet was often reflected in his grades. C plus-plus, right down the god-dang middle and always on the verge of slipping, always slipping.
Well papered doctors and long credentialed theologians would kerfuffle they one to another, “The boy must win you with originality. Every single time. He absolutely cannot stay on task. But, what a wonderful imagination he does have. If only he would apply himself. If he would just follow the bleeding instructions!”
His professors weren't the only ones who didn't get the lad. Percy was generally ostracized by his peers, tending to teeter on the social border drawn harshly between the ins and the outs. He was seen by some as having the potential to break large on the scene at any moment. The very same would quickly withdraw once it became apparent the crowd was not slanting that direction. He was one who could be classified as geek-chic, but usually just geek. And as such, he was never officially and silently voted into the fold.
With a complete absence of interest in fashion Percy went the way of classic James Dean and developed himself a uniform to save the heartache of misunderstanding current trends. Only white t-shirts tucked into blue jeans with highly polished black Doc Martens at the stumps would do. And, while ridicule - or worse, indifference - may have adorned his person, jewelry and the like did not. No timepiece, no belt, no backpack, no facial hair, nor hair at all. Eyebrows only; sleek and trim. He was clean. It was as if Percy wished to present himself a fresh canvass for the world to paint themselves upon. A test of sorts. But, what they chose to paint was never enough, never quite right, and certainly not advantageous.
He was beautiful and slender and strong with a quirky natural charm, but he simply refused to press the issue. He was no salesman. Males enjoyed his comforting, radiant energy; capable yet non-threatening. Then they would scurry away before the others could discover their guilty pleasure. Females were certainly interested, but they found his utter lack of disingenuousness next to assaultive. He was devoid of the requisite peacock strut. Instead he had faith in divine order, which he claimed would - in time - situate him in the right spot. And as such, he developed another tenet: You either see me or you do not. So, most did not.
One such day of palpable invisibility lead Percy back to his bed. Quietly, confidently, and frustrated he shoved off from class. Without notice of time's passage he serenely glided onto his locally made mattress. This was the ship's helm from which he conducted what he called, his real work. This was where he pried open the very essence of dreams.
A lazy midday breeze tumbled in through the open window and poured over his scalp as he began to let loose, sliding slowly and narcotically into the dreamworld. Sacred geometry rose and broke as ominous bruise tones accompanied sharp shooting whisps of neon color. Together they careened inside his cement-heavy eyelids, consolidating into pictures of the day or whatever fantasies he so chose. He softly mused to himself as he fell, “What are the differences between waking and dreaming life?”
He meditated on the concept of linear time and initially came to the conclusion that dreams stand apart in this manner. For in one moment of dream-time he could be viewed shrunken, balancing atop a lonely leaf of water lily in a vast, murky swamp. The next moment he was experiencing a protected thrill ride through a series of undulating and illuminating tubes and rings of various candy color. But, when weighing this against waking he realized that just a moment ago he was at school and could now be found at Mom's house, alone in his bed.
Of course, we all know that time flows free and forward along alone. And, that each moment connects seamlessly to the next. But, damned if he could remember walking home. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the morning at all. What class had he participated in?
As he persisted in this line of thought he realized that his memories – while generally oriented in succession – began to fall out of sequence. His mind raced and skittered. One minute it was Christmas morning for Little Boy Percy and the next, Middle School Percy was standing in line at the library, wishing that for even an instant Millicent Parker would look back at him with that sexually awkward grin that excited him so.
How peculiar: time. All of a sudden it did not look so linear. Now this was truly interesting to Percy, so he continued his thought experiment and fell further down the tunnel of dreams.
Could it be absurdity and surreality that separate the two worlds? Or perhaps the perception of pain and suffering? Neither of these seemed to fit. For in the dreamscape he had been attacked on the battlefield with a gorgeous blade inserted up the entirety of his spine, decimating it to shards in a display of hurt he never thought possible. And, as far as surreality goes? As if the world weren't odd enough, he had long been plagued by visions of other realms ushered in on the backs of supposed evolutionary mechanisms known as the human imagination and/or daydreaming.
Maybe consequence was the defining line. For when a man is murdered another is jailed, so we mostly do not murder. Here was a fine example of continuity of consequence. But, do we not wake affected from the dream? How often have we lead a seemingly meaningless day made more pungent by the fantastic adventures from which we had recently awoken? How long has it been since you've turned a dreamworld concept into a long labored painting or a song sung softly or a hand hammered structure? These in turn are proven lasting effects held over from REM. The intangible made tangible. This in turn is known as consequence.
As Percy did finally succumb to the dreamworld completely he asserted one last definition of division: the persuasive illusion. For whilst in the dream we are convinced that it is reality; that it is our lives in act of living. Have you never been terrified by what you claimed a dream, but in transit knew wholeheartedly to be completely real? We see, we smell, we taste, we hear, we feel. We fly, we dive, we labor, and we love. We spend days and weeks and years in mere minutes and yet no matter how unreal or incongruous the experience, our minds are absolutely and unflinchingly fooled into believing that this is the real-real. And again, how different are we now? How woken are you in this current iteration? Do you not experience this here and this now as the real-real? Why question one and not the other?
And, the more Percy thought about the state of the universe, the more the dividing line began to slim and separate. The dream did finally become him. And, he did become the dream.
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