There was I, about to have a night of wild sexoring like the world was about to end with the unobtainable girl I have a severe crush with, and I wake up.

I think the first missile had taken off from America, but that doesn't matter, as soon some beautiful fireworks were flying over our heads, between America and Russia (yep, I'm old-fashioned). Pretty colourful shockwaves of radiation had went through us, so supposedly we were dying.

Cue to a train, a regular train. I'm there trying to get laid. The girl I mention above and her boyfriend are there. I'm there too and so is an unrelated friend. Whatever. As I'm chatting to some girl in the train (I think she is one of my neighbors), the girl takes me by the hand and she takes me walking towards the end of the train.

"What's going on?", I say. "M (her boyfriend) asked me to fuck you". Oh, right. Doesn't sound bad. The last wagon is supposed to be empty, but as we are walking across the train, we notice that the train is getting split in two and we are getting separated from her boyfriend.

We get into a toilet and then I try to phone her boyfriend. I'm terrible with phones, and I take such a long time just to dial his number. I mean, several minutes of fudging with my phone. I hate phones. Anyway, just when I get to talk to him, I wake up.


Hi dream log. It's been awhile, hasn't it? You and I used to have so many meaningful interactions, but in the past few years, well, I just sort have drifted away. I'm sorry about that.

I don't really know what purpose dreams are supposed to serve. I do know that dreams have always been important in my life. In them, I have experienced a gamut of situations and emotions, combined in ways in which I have never experienced them in real life. Some of the most vivid and intensely clear dreams I have ever had have turned out to be somewhat prophetic in nature. And that frightened me. Frightened me deeply.

So, I quit writing about my dreams. Though I didn't quit having them, although I have not had a dream that has come true since September 11, 2001, and for that I am both profoundly grateful and somewhat disillusioned. But I never stop thinking about writing about these dreams I have. Never. Many are the times I have awakened barely conscious with my body half out of bed headed toward the keyboard to commit to words the imagery my imagination feeds me in the dark of the night. I always stop myself. I am afraid, you see, of making the dreams more vivid, more intense, more real than reality. They already possess too much of that power. If, truly, life is but a dream, then what are dreams but glimpses into other lives, other existences?

Woo, tangent, dear dream log. I did not mean to write such an introspective preface, but I felt I owed you some sort of explanation for not communicating with you for so long.

I was telling my mother a couple of days ago about the long night of dreams I had had the night prior, and she ... she gawped. She was amazed at the detail and the clarity of my recollection. Her reaction has served what I was afraid of by contributing my dreams to you: it served as a focus, and thus my dreams over the last few nights have been as intensely personal, detailed, emotional, and amazing than ever. Thus, there's really no reason not to put this one down is there?

In the dream, I am living in a big city, and I have a number of friends, most of them analogues of friends I have in waking life. While not all of us are together all the time, and some of the friendships between friends of mine are tenous, their common bond being only friendship with me, we are all assembled upon this dream to go see a musical. One that has generated controversy, praise, acclaim, all the things a piece of popular entertainment is supposed to do. And we, in this dream, are extremely excited to go see this musical.

The plot of said musical is unimportant other than it presents homosexuals throughout history in a loving and unforgiving light. To demonstrate an example of this, here is an excerpt of one of the songs from the musical:

One little, two little, three little homos
four little, five little, six little queerbois
seven little, eight little, nine little dykegirls
man-da-tor-y GAY!

Vivien Leigh, Vivien Leigh,
married herself to great Sir Larry,
never thought one of the sights she'd see,
was her hubby buggering Obi-Wan Kenobi!

One little, two little, three little homos
four little, five little, six little queerbois
seven little, eight little, nine little dykegirls

Yes, as you might imagine from that bit of lyrical genius, we all loved it, ate it up like candy. We were flying high after the musical ended, and since one of our number had a connection to one of the cast, we decided to go to the post-show party.

At first, it's wonderful, it's like a dream within a dream. We are carefree, we are with the beautiful people, we are the beautiful people, we are the ones on the inside at last, ignoring those on the outside as (at least) once we had all ourselves been ignored. The beauty, of course, doesn't last. One disastrous hookup, one botched drug purchase, one carelessly spoken thought later, my circle of friends are back at my (or perhaps someone else's) home, watching with horror as the youngest member of our circle begins a psychotic break, watching him unravel before our eyes. We realize we really know nothing about the other, vocalized perfectly by one of my friends, Emmett (yes, that one, the Emmett from Queer as Folk, the only entirely fictional character in my circle of friends) as he reads my beads about my own self-interest, believing I am only expressing concern about the situation in order to break up the relationship between the youngest, and now obviously very disturbed, member of our group of friends, and another member, a relationship of which I have never approved. Of course, I snap back at him saying that indeed my self-interest is involved because of the deep amount of true love I bear for each of my friends represents the interest I have in each of them; but the words I speak ring hollow, false.

I realize that the only thing that makes these very different men my friends is love. That once I realized I loved each of them, I stopped thinking of them as people, only things that I loved. To some degree, all the other members of our little coven also realized how superficial we'd all been. And that after that night, we'd all drift apart, never to be the same again.

What happened after; whether or not we came through that night, isn't for me to know. I wake up at this point, and I am overwhelmed with sadness, loneliness, and maybe more than a little regret at realizing that perhaps that there is some truth to this dream. That I objectify those that I love, and because I love them, accept who they present themselves to be without question, sometimes to the point of idiocy. The dream arrived too late to help the past, but perhaps it can help the future. I don't know, I'm still really depressed about the whole imaginary sequence of events.

I wish Emmett were a real person.

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