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The Dream Diary. Property of Jesse Jean Berks

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The Dream Diary
Property of Jesse Jean Berks


If you’re reading this: I’m dead, or you’re Michael and you should get the hell out of my things! (or maybe I’m a world famous author like J.K Rowling and you just lined up for four and a half hours to read this, maybe I even published it under J.J Berks. Like this will ever get published).

Into. okay I copied this bit of a book I read, BUT DON’T JUDGE ME! You’re the one reading my diary: Dreams are the touchstones of our characters, they've facinated philosophers for thousands of years. They're images, thoughts and emotions. They vivid and vague. Imagination.

10/07/2011
THE BEACH, my second last dream of the night (well by then it was probably day, I woke up at embarrassing 2:10 in the afternoon)

This one started off inside. I could almost taste the sail air, almost touch the dust drifting through it like grey snowflakes. Through and aluminium coloured frame with hinges but no door I glimpsed the ghostly beam of a projector. I business-type women in a pinstripe jacket and mini skirt read out the title. I think sounded stupid, something like “The Dangers of Suncream” or “When Holidays Attack” after the show my brother had watched the night before “When Vacations Attacked”. I take no notice of it. Then suddenly, I’m at the beach, great! Orange sand, turquoise water, steep slop, no grip, sliding down. Trapped. Not great. I was stuck, hanging of the end of this stupid beach-thing which just ends like a sandy ice-burg over a seemingly bottomless ocean (this might be a good place to mention my slightly irrational fear of sharks). Why not clime out? You may be wandering. Nice try but I can’t get a grip, literally I’m just clawing away at the sand going nowhere. And more importantly I’m beeeeeeep scared, seeing as sharks tend to be attracted to thrashing sounds like feeding fish or fourteen-year-olds waving their arms and legs about. Though, I evenly did manage get out by grasping a conveniently placed rail which I swore wasn’t there a minute ago thinking “Suck on that sharks!” even though there turned out not to have been there at all. Anyway, I dragged myself up the beach, knowing that if I’d let go I’d most certainly fall back down. Finally I reached a less steep bit, only to be pushed back down again by a toddled. Thanks! But look on the bright side, at least I wasn’t alone anymore. Now there was the girl from Orphan timing how long it would take myself and a ginger kid to scamper out. Who’d do that? Watch people freeze instead of helping people out. That’d be me I guess. It was my dream after all. Just as I’d rapped my fingers round the cold metal rail. I realised I wasn’t on the beach anymore, oh no. I was watching that stupid presentation (the one from the beginning) with a load of people from the beach. With the addition my friend, Alisha glaring at me from across the room. I think I inevitably got her sectioned under the 1983 Mental Health act, meaning they could keep her there against her will. It was my idea after all for her to go to counselling. It was her councillor who took her to the hospital where she (aged 14) was diagnosed with a series of mental illnesses and disorders. Anxiety, depression, schizophrenia…, well she needed help and that’s what she got.

THE CITY OF CARDS

Paint fell from the walls, the building swaged. Man became kings and jokers. Queens and hearts and diamonds. I was I giant, I giant in a city of houses of cards. My mother used to say the stares are paved diamonds. But here it was the floor.

I took the 01:36 to nowhere, bus route 19. Mother was there, but she wasn’t the woman who sleeps across the hall from me today. Her hair was butterscotch blonde, no streaks of grey in her fringed. This was how she’d looked eight years ago, the day after Michael was born. He rapped his rosy hand around her finger. This is where I woke up. 14:10, I missed lunch. Yay (sarcasm).



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