Yesterday, I did a sleep study at the hospital. It confirmed suspicions that I’ve carried with me for years—I’m a narcoleptic. Since my earliest memories, I’ve lived in a sort of limbo between dreams and waking life. At night, I get no rest. Yet, during the day, I slip in and out of sleep and dreams frequently. Cataplexy is like an epileptic fit, yet it’s smoother for the mind. You lose control, falling out of consciousness and into dreams like a sleepy infant. Strong emotions usually trigger the attacks: joy, fear, anger, anything. It’s a frustrating condition. However, compared to more severe diseases like epilepsy, it’s manageable. It’s actually nice. Modern life is unbearable, and sleep is a sufficient antidote.
Why do dreams taste like honey? Why am I so much more content in dreams than in waking life? Why do I feel a sense of crushing disappointment when I wake from a beautiful dream? I dream of fishing in a pond as a child or hanging out with friends at school, during recess.
I adore sleep as much as I hate it. Yes, I hate some aspects of sleep. For one thing, it doesn’t refresh my senses. I’m always tired. Daytime sleepiness is a symptom of narcolepsy. I sleep through the days and the nights, but I’m always tired.
Maccman has occupied some time in my otherwise empty schedule. He’s coming by for dinner. I don’t have many friends, so the visit is nice of him. People find me peculiar because of my condition.
As we sit at my kitchen table, we eat chicken wings with rice. I’m so bored I could scream. Unexpectedly, I find a sedative in my pocket. I down it with my wine. This combination isn’t advisable. Wine and sedatives are both depressants, and taking them simultaneously can kill you. Honestly, I couldn’t care less. What do I have to look forward to? I’m already thirty, with no girlfriend or children. Time has flown by. Yesterday, I was twenty-one. I had my whole life ahead of me. My transition into adulthood wasn’t easy either. My poor soul never had a chance. These days, I stay asleep except for dreams of reality that interrupt my rest.
“When we’re done eating, we really should go to the club or something. You’ve been cooped up in this prison for too long.”
I rest my fork on the edge of my plate. My gaze lingers on Maccman’s baby blue eyes. “I suppose so. But there’s nowhere in town I want to go. Every spot’s the same vacant graveyard without life or excitement.” The sedative’s kicking in. My brain slows as the conversation becomes harder to process. I mumble yes or uh-huh a few times. Then, I focus on the relaxation washing over my mind. I imagine my body floating in translucent water above the floor in the middle of the room—warm saltwater. Tasty. I imagine it rushing through the doors of the apartment and submerging the room.
Why can’t I be happy? Why must I keep focusing on the simple-minded pleasures that only simple-minded fools indulge in? I do it because I’m numb. I can’t enjoy my own company or the company of others. I think too much, I talk too little, and I do nothing to fix this conundrum. My mind is useless aside from spinning yarns and riddles. I lose myself in the delicate threads of useless thoughts. If I can’t get laid tonight, I’m going to do it. I’m tired. My mind is running on empty.
“Are you listening to me, man?”
I lean back in my chair and focus on Maccman’s mouth. It’s slightly wet with saliva.
I solemnly gaze at the midnight quarter-moon that’s slowly ascending the city skyline. The joint I’m smoking burns my fingertips as I take a final drag. I blow smoke rings into the air. The view of the streets is eerie from the roof of Riverside elementary school. I grab my light blue jacket and jump down.
Heading home, I search my pockets for a smoke. I find only my father’s watch, a birthday gift. It’s dark brown, and the timepiece itself is broken. I walk through the deserted streets at dawn, stopping at a store to buy a pack of cigarettes. Stepping outside, I light one. I puff another smoke ring. Snow’s falling around me, and ice has covered the roads.
I enter my apartment building. Walking down the hallway, I notice a woman in her early 20s walking toward me. Her hair’s dyed red, and she’s wearing a vintage white dress. As we walk past each other, I turn to get a closer look, but the hallway’s empty. Déjà vu washes over my senses as I stare down the empty corridor. The bending lights cast moving shadows on the floor.
Malloy woke from restful dreams on a brisk December morning. His anxious mind was cluttered with the memories of vivid dreams. He walked over to his desk, where a pack of unfiltered Camel Lights lay. He took a cigarette. He lit it and smoked it down to his fingertips. Checking his phone for texts, he found one from Maccman.
“I need to talk about what I dreamed last night.”
Sitting across from Malloy at his kitchen table, Maccman picked a cigarette from Malloy’s pack and lit it.
“It was so surreal. I was in a nightclub. The music was loud as hell, and the strobe lights almost gave me an epileptic fit. I was dancing with a beautiful girl. First, she kissed my lips. Then, she leaned in and whispered in my ear, ‘Club Illusory is open. Wanna go?’”
Maccman’s eyes blazed feverishly as he continued.
“It was dark. We were walking through the streets at night when she suddenly pointed at a neon sign. It was bright blue. ‘Club Illusory,’ it said. We went inside and took seats in the back. And that’s when the dream stops.”
Malloy studied Maccman’s expression, which radiated confusion. Taking a sip from his coffee cup, Malloy gazed out the window.
“Club Illusory? What do you think they were showing inside?”
Gently, Maccman rubbed his temple with a fingertip.
“I don’t know. But I was searching online for books on dream analysis, and I stumbled on this one.” Maccman turned on his chair and started searching through his backpack. “Look.” He placed a book on the kitchen table, Esoteric Dream Analysis: From Ancient Times to the Present Day.”
Malloy looked at the cover. “Club Illusory” was written in big, blue letters on a neon sign. It looked like a nightclub entrance.
“Is this picture what you saw in your dream?”
Maccman nodded slowly. He fished for a lighter in his pocket and then lit another cigarette.
“I’ve been reading it this morning. I’m only on page 76, but there’s a chapter about this club. Apparently, it’s like a dream cinema. People pay money to watch other people’s dreams. People from all over the world have seen this place in their dreams. I looked online and found forums where people share the same stories about visiting this club in their sleep.”
Malloy gave Maccman an inquisitive look.
“That sounds far-fetched. How many people have seen it?”
“Probably thousands. It’s not a huge number, but this shit is real, Malloy. What I saw in my dream was exactly the same as the picture on the cover. The book talks about practicing lucid dreaming with a dream journal. Then, you can visit this place every night if you want to.”
Malloy unlocked his phone and ran a quick Google search for Club Illusory. “Holy shit.”
“I know.”
Malloy stumbled onto a subreddit, r/clubillusory, with over 50,000 members. The top-rated posts were all by users describing their dreams from the night before. Skimming through the top posts, Malloy stumbled on one that made him pause: “I watched someone die last night. Woke up with tears streaming down my face.” He read on. “I was taking a seat in the audience. The lights dimmed, and the screen flashed white. After that came a few random images—close-ups of eyeballs, insects, contorted faces, an erect penis. Next, there’s a person standing high on a ledge. It’s a construction site. He’s balancing on a beam. Gravity’s pulling him down, but he’s trying with all his power to stay on the beam. Suddenly, he’s falling into a black abyss, like a dark ocean. The last image is a face contorted in agony. The dream ends.”
Maccman leaned back in his chair, studying Malloy’s puzzled expression.
Excerpt from Malloy’s Diary
December 13th. Monday. I slept in the psychiatric ward of Riverside Hospital. I was admitted because I had numerous attacks of cataplexy during the day, and I was frightened for my health. I wasn’t eating or drinking, and I slept through 90% of my days.
I like it here. The other patients are pleasant enough, though peculiar. They ask me to play board games or give them smokes. I’m alarmingly thin, 90 pounds. The nurses look concerned. I spend most of my days sleeping in my room with the radio playing softly. Sometimes I get homesick, but then I remember the vacancy and stillness of my ordinary life. The depression is creeping up like a fever. I bathe in white sheets and stare at the colorless walls. I miss my dead mother. Sometimes the nurses give me a sedative, which is the highlight of my waking hours. I try to clear my mind of negative thoughts. Sometimes it wanders into dangerous territory. I eat the food they serve me and then shit it out into their toilet bowls, where it belongs.
The light beams in through my room’s stained window onto the canvas I’ve prepared. I use a palette knife to gently apply oil paint, adding, subtracting, and multiplying colors until the canvas is completely covered. Later, I grab a bunch of branches from trees and add details. The abstract painting resembles a psychedelic ocean floor, filled with fish and pulsating light and dark. It exhilarates me. It might be my favorite piece this year. Gazing at the canvas with a cup of coffee in my hands, though, self-doubt courses through my veins. I throw the cup at the canvas, and it shatters on the floor. With a knife, I tear a hole that looks like a wet vagina. Suffused with self-hatred, I slash my wrist. I let my blood drip onto the painting.
I bought a copy of Maccman’s dream book. It’s interesting enough, though it’s quite a slow read. It goes over dream analysis and symbolism. I’m reading a chapter on Carl Jung. Apparently, he treated people with troubling dreams. He helped them make sense of what common images represented. A forest, for example, symbolizes the unconscious. That makes sense.
I experience several attacks of cataplexy during the day now. My dreams after an attack are more vivid than during regular sleep. I have yet to visit the strange Club Illusory, but I’m hoping to be invited soon.
The restaurant’s lights are dim, and an ominous mood hangs like a cloud from the ceiling. Ambient music plays in the background. Malloy is sitting with a beautiful girl. He doesn’t know her name. Strange paintings hang on the walls. One depicts a bloodshot eyeball, one a man flashing his teeth, and another a white rabbit. Malloy stares at his unfinished crab cakes. He places his fork on the table and looks at his companion. She flashes him seductive looks. Her eyes are a cat’s eyes. Her hair is dyed dark purple.
“I’m bored. I know where we should go.”
Vacantly, Malloy stares across the empty, darkened restaurant.
“This place is dead, let’s go.”
The streets of Riverside are covered in snow as Malloy and the strange woman step outside. Glancing up at the sky, Malloy spots a falling star. The couple trudge through snow and soon arrive at the illustrious Club Illusory. Making their way inside, they take a seat in the back. Suddenly, the lights flash white before dimming.
Images flash across the screen. A woman appears, lying on the dunes of the ocean floor. She looks up at the stars, the moon, and the sun reflected above the ocean waves. In the next frame, she swims toward the surface, surrounded by weird fishes. When she reaches the surface, she’s in space. Behind her, the moon is as large as a planet. Looking back at the bright, blue earth, she starts drifting out of frame. The lights turn on in the theater, and Malloy is lying in his bed, dazed.
Mindlessly scrolling through your phone is the perfect remedy for an anxious mind precisely because it keeps the pulse moving beneath your skin. Sometimes I view the world through rose-colored glasses, and sometimes I view it for what it is—a stinking shithouse that’s locked from the outside. Tomorrow, I’m going to do another sleep study. I’m tired of the cataplexy attacks. I’ve seen the illustrious Club Illusory, and I intend to return soon. I’ve started a dream journal. I fill it with a few paragraphs every morning when I wake up, and each new entry is a little longer than the one before.
When you know you’re dreaming, you can essentially do whatever you want—fly, swim, drive, eat, sleep, shit. It’s difficult to pull off, but the better you get at remembering your dreams using a dream journal, the easier it is to detect when you’re dreaming.
If humans had the gift of flight, dreams would be unnecessary. Why, precisely, is dreaming every night necessary? Why can’t your mind fade to black until you wake up? There’s no need for dreams except to relive precious memories. When we die, will we experience an uninterrupted dream that lasts until we’re finally reborn? I believe in rebirth, but I’m the only motherfucker who’s sincere when they say so. Why wouldn’t you be reborn? Everything runs in cycles. Seasons come, pass, and then come again. It’s not that I’m afraid of dying. (In truth, I am, but that’s not the point.) The planet is billions of years old, and I’m supposed to believe my life is so purposeless that I only get to exist in the cosmic blink of an eye. And then what, nothing forever? The universe is meant to be explored, not simply gazed at as if we were petulant infants.
Not feeling lonely is bliss. To be alone and not lonely—solitude, you might call it—is wonderful. I’ve been alone for so long that I couldn’t imagine living with people. I used to have friends, but gradually—one by one—they disappeared. Most vanished when I was first diagnosed with narcolepsy. People view me as peculiar, distinct, odd. I don’t know what to do with all my time. These days, I work in restaurants, washing dishes. I’m considering going back to school. I want to help people in trouble, maybe as a therapist. I had a therapist for a while, but she didn’t teach me anything. She only spouted commonplace information that I already knew.
I’m currently walking home from work. The streets are silent. Sometimes I imagine swapping places with the people I pass on the sidewalk. Anything would be preferable to my own life, as if I had one. I don’t feel sorry for myself, but I can’t help but feel shortchanged. As I pass a store window, I gaze at my reflection. The face looking back at me is beatdown and tired.
Maccman and Malloy were sitting in Malloy’s living room, watching television. Malloy was drinking a beer, but he placed it gently on the coffee table in front of him. Maccman was checking his phone contemplatively. Suddenly, he turned to Malloy. “I was on Reddit this morning when I stumbled on the craziest shit.”
Maccman passed his phone to Malloy, who was struggling to remain present.
“What am I looking at? Is it a post?” Malloy was examining the top-rated post on r/clubillusory.
“I woke up today to find out my friend had died in his sleep. My best friend used to frequent this sub. He was big into ‘dream traversing.’ I woke up today to news that he’d died. He died in his sleep last night. Before he went to sleep, he told me he was going to try to visit Club Illusory. This shit is dangerous. I advise anyone frequenting this sub to stop and move on with their lives. Seriously.”
Malloy shot Maccman a perplexed look. “Is this real? Holy shit.” Relaxation washed over Malloy’s senses. Slipping out of consciousness, he leaned back against the living room couch.
“Malloy? Malloy?”
He woke up on the living room floor. Maccman was standing over him. He looked frightened.
“My God! I’ve never seen you have a sleep attack before. Are you all right?”
Malloy rubbed his temples with both hands and then rose. He was standing in the living room, and a shattered beer glass lay in front of him.
“I’ve been having them more often recently. I’m fine, though. No worries. It isn’t dangerous.”
Malloy went into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.
“Did you dream, Malloy? You were out for quite a while.”
“No, nothing. It was a dreamless sleep. But I’m done with that dream traversing bullshit, Maccman. I’m not getting myself killed over this.”
Maccman considered the sincerity in Malloy’s eyes and tone. Seeming defeated, he agreed and left the apartment. Malloy sat in his kitchen with his glass of water. He took another sip, hoping Maccman wouldn’t do anything stupid. In the bathroom, Malloy gazed at his strange reflection. He looked thin and faded, a ghost from a different time and planet. He seemed distant, not quite there.
Sometimes I wonder what my purpose is. Since young adulthood, my life has been directionless and adrift. Most days, I just seem to float through the hours until I go to bed. I can’t help feeling that I’m wasting my time. But then I remember the vastness of space and the number of stars in the galaxy. You can’t help but feel insignificant. H.P. Lovecraft feared the ocean; I fear space. There must be something out there—some higher intelligence. Just as we can gaze at an anthill, contemplating the intricate structure of an insect society, something must be gazing down at us. Or maybe the universe is simply filled with dead planets surrounding dying suns. Isaac Newton described himself as a petulant child playing by a beach while the vast ocean lay unexplored before him. There’s so much we have yet to learn, but our mental faculties are limited. We can never understand everything. Maybe we’ll evolve soon from simple primates into a form of higher intelligence. I want to experience it all forever. I want to watch mountains form and then dissolve into the sea. I want to watch the earth from far away—from a plane or space. I want to get so high that I almost overdose. I want to watch humans’ ancestors evolve from the sea into simple primates. I want to stop thinking for a year. I want to be an embryo in my mother’s womb. I want to be lost at sea, adrift on a raft that’s gently caressed by benevolent waves.
I remember my first sleep paralysis. I was lying in bed, about to fall asleep, when my body froze. Fear rose in my chest as I tried to turn or move a limb. I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I started focusing on my hand, which lifted only slightly through extreme mental force. Then I saw it in the corner of the room—a ghostly image of a shadow creature. It was floating slightly above the floor. I was completely terrified, still trying to scream, but my mouth wouldn’t open. The minutes dragged on and then, suddenly, I regained control of my left arm. Soon, I was released from the grips of paralysis, and I sat up in my bed. The ghost was nowhere to be found, but I was sure I’d connected with the shadow dimension. What I saw wasn’t a waking dream; I was visited by an extraterrestrial being. I’m sure of it.
Malloy was lying in his bed, checking r/clubillusory, when the phone rang. Michelle was calling, Maccman’s mother. “Have you seen Matthew? He wasn’t in his room this morning when I went to wake him. I thought he might be at your place.”
Panic seeps into Malloy. “No, he isn’t here. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Call me if he’s not home later, and I’ll help look for him.”
Malloy already suspected what had happened, but he tried not to panic. Checking r/clubillusory for any clues, he stumbled on a highly up-voted post with a link to a news article.
“Disappearances of several teens linked to activity in strange subreddit,” the article reported. “Two Riverside teens disappeared last week. Their disappearances have been linked to a strange activity called ‘dream traversing.’ The teens’ last posts on the subreddit r/clubillusory discussed keeping dream journals and trying to achieve lucid dreaming. One of the teens, Daniel Ripple, was last seen Friday night at Harry’s Bar. Before he left the establishment, he told two witnesses he was going to try ‘dream traversing’ when he got home. ‘Dream traversing’ refers to visiting what insiders call ‘Club Illusory,’ a dream cinema where spectators can watch each other’s dreams.
Malloy felt dizzy. He knew what had happened to Maccman, but he didn’t know what to do. Sitting silently at the edge of his bed, he tried scrolling through r/clubillusory. When he opened the page, however, it showed only a message from a moderator: “Unfortunately, due to recent events, the moderators have decided to close this sub.”
Poring over the book Maccman had lent him, Malloy searched for clues. At last, he stumbled on a chapter near the end of the book called “Exiting.” Exiting described the process of being sucked into the cinema screen while dream traversing, disappearing into an infinite dream. Once a dreamer has exited, they can never return to their human form. Malloy was perplexed. Maccman must have known about this possibility, but he had decided to visit the esoteric club anyway. Some users on the subreddit had described it as an addiction. They had written about an inability to stop despite knowing how unsafe it was. Still, Malloy knew what he had to do.
He opened his dream journal to the entry from December 17th. As he lay in the darkness, tears streamed down his face. What if he never got to see Maccman again? What if his friend was lost in Club Illusory forever? As Malloy considered this terrible fate, he felt a premonition that he himself would experience the same destiny. Still, he had to try to rescue Maccman. Otherwise, Malloy would never forgive himself. His thoughts became dreamier and harder to process. Soon, he was asleep.
Walking through a snowy forest, Malloy traveled down a path that twisted and turned. Ahead, he saw footprints leading the way. Malloy knew the prints were Maccman’s. He watched his own breath as he shivered in the cold.
Trudging through the snow, he followed the footsteps toward a cabin. The building was small, desolate, and dark except for a brooding, distinctly blue fire, which was the only source of light. The windows had been boarded shut. Malloy entered and sat down before the fire. He tossed a log into the flames. He laid down to rest.
Regaining his senses hours later, he found that the fire was out. The cabin was lost in darkness, but Malloy made his way to the door. Opening it, he found himself in the middle of a city. People swarmed like flies around him. The streets were covered in snow, and despite the daylight, the moon hung in the distance above gray skyscrapers.
“I need to find Club Illusory.” As the words left Malloy’s mouth, he experienced an intense feeling of déjà vu. Finally, he realized he was dreaming. He imagined the entrance to Club Illusory, and the buildings around him began to shift and switch places. A familiar entrance rose from the ground in front of him. The Club Illusory sign beamed a radiant blue. He walked in, left his jacket at the door, and took a seat. The lights flashed white and then darkened before the screen lit up again.
The image of a tarantula appeared. The spider crept slowly along the edge of a table before the screen flashed with the image of a kitchen knife. Maccman’s face appeared, contorted with agony. Malloy tried to hold back a scream before he rose from his seat. As he drew closer to the screen, he noticed that the image of Maccman was mimicking his movements. Malloy stopped, and so did Maccman. Then, he took a few measured steps forward until he reached the soft screen. Placing a hand on the curtain, Maccman mirrored Malloy’s movements. Abruptly. Maccman’s hand passed through the screen and grabbed Malloy’s, pulling him into the picture.
“I’m on a foreign planet, somewhere far into the depths of the universe. I’m standing by a farmhouse, and I scan the surroundings, but the night impairs my vision. Suddenly, I turn. I see a gigantic circular object. It looks like a moon superimposed over the sky, though it’s vibrant with many colors. Some of them are unfamiliar. Then, the farmhouse catches fire, and the flames reach toward the sky. With a gasp, I wake up in my bed.”
Attentively, Alice has been taking notes while gazing solemnly at Matthew Ripple’s tired eyes. He was sitting in a reclining chair and studying the cracks in the ceiling. For the past few weeks, Matthew has visited Alice’s clinic. He’s been complaining of exhaustion, irritability, and night terrors.
Alice put down her notebook. She rose from her seat. “Sorry. Time’s up. I want you to continue filling in your dream journal every morning. Bring it to me next week.”
Matthew sighed, exhausted. As he walked toward the clinic door, he paused. “When will you give me your assessment? Am I insane or worse?”
Alice laughed and then patted Matthew’s back. “I’ll tell you when we’re finished. But I can assure you that I’ve had patients worse off than you.”
The theater is completely full. The audience gazes at the images that flash across the screen—a bloody menstruating vagina and a razorblade slashing open an eyeball. The lights dim, and the screen turns black. A man is sitting in a living room, watching television. His beer glass is cracked along the edges. He collapses to the floor, knocking the glass off the table. It shatters into hundreds of pieces. The screen blackens before lighting up again. A man in a hallway appears. He’s smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings into the air. As he traverses further along the dark, cramped space, Alice appears. The two figures pass each other, and Alice turns to get a second glimpse of the man. But the hallway is empty.
“Would you like to read my poetry?”
The park looked ominous. Streetlight flickered in the darkness where two lovers sat, side by side, on rusty swings. The stars shone overhead.
“Your skin’s so pale in the moonlight. It makes me cry.”
Alice brushed the hair from Malloy’s eyes. She kissed his cheek. “If your heart’s heavy because of me, I want you to know that I can disappear. I’d rather you be happy without me than unhappy with me. Wherever I am, there you are.” Alice lit another cigarette and then stared off into the distance. “Do you ever get that strange feeling like there’s nothing out there? Like you’re all alone, even when you’re sitting next to the person you love?”
Tears welled up in Malloy’s eyes.
“Like it’s all a dream?”
“If this is a dream, I don’t want it to end. Dreams always end, and then we forget. That’s life’s greatest sadness. We forget our precious dreams and magic moments.”
Gabriel Wing 