Sopor Aeternus

"There is a dream inside a dream"

The Reflecting God

"Life is but a dream"

Cowboy Bebop

"A dream ends where reality begins"

Lena Leszczak, conversation in the smoking room

"Yes? So how can you tell the difference?"

The author's alter ego

SOPOR AETERNUS

A clatter. The regular clatter of wheels. A rhythmic clatter-clack, clatter-clack, clatter-clack, clatter-clack, clatter-clack. A monotonous hum, almost a hum. A light gust of wind. I slowly, deliberately open my eyes. A train. I'm on a train. More precisely, in a compartment. A window. It's on the right. It's dirty. You can't see anything through it. Suddenly I become aware of someone's presence. Opposite. A woman, probably older. No! Old. Old, ugly, repulsive. I want to look at her, but the details keep eluding me, only playfully peeking out from the dark corners of my mind. I realize I don't want to look at her. I turn back to the window. I stare out. I can't see anything in particular—even the furthest objects flash by like crazy. Perspective has fled. Vanished. Gone. The sky... The sky is so beautiful, constantly changing, swirling, starting with a lush green, darkening, then brightening, fading into blue, a drowning blue, and finally a glaring pink. The aurora. The aurora borealis. That's all I can think of. Suddenly, a mountain appears outside the window. A huge, grass-covered mountain. It refuses to escape. It refuses to disappear from view. Like a train going in circles. It evokes such strange feelings... Fascination. Terror. Suddenly, a new sound is heard. A humming sound, a different tone from the train. It seems to be coming from above. It keeps growing, as if it wanted to devour us, constantly growing, filling the entire window, bursting into the compartment!...

The train enters the darkness with a deep whistle. Are we in a tunnel? No. Something tells me we're not. A flash. We're back in the light. The mountain has disappeared. I lean back comfortably in my seat. I notice this old, OLD woman staring at me. Persistently. I try to avoid her gaze, but every time I look away, her eyes, her gaze, are there. Suddenly I hear a bang. It's far away, yet close. It doesn't irritate my ears, yet it's terrifying. Then another one. An explosion. Then another. And another. And another. I look fearfully out the window, then at the woman:

"You're scared, aren't you?

" "What is it?" I ask.

"It's Them."

"Them?

" "Them. They're falling from the sky." She smiles in that way that's impossible to describe.

"What are They?" I ask.

The woman, I notice now: a wrinkled, hideous, toothless face leans towards me. I feel her stinking breath on my face:

"You'll find out. You'll find out. Soon." She starts laughing. The train suddenly squeals, a shrill squeal, as if braking... I don't know why, but I scream, screaming louder and louder...

- - -

The worst part is waking up. The ceiling. Above me, I see only the ceiling. I try to straighten my numb limbs. I push the crumpled sheets aside with my legs. The slightly sour smell of sweat fills my nostrils. Apart from memory, the only remnant of the dream. Its only materialization. The result. I rub my aching hands. My fingertips wander over my right forearm. I explore dozens of tiny valleys, hills, and basins until I encounter three new mountain ranges. And so they begin to heal. I touch them with pleasure, the bulges on my skin, my fingers becoming hundreds of lips brushing the scabs. An indescribable bliss overwhelms me. I lie there, breathing more and more calmly. Somewhere in the distance, an electronic alarm clock rings, beeping. Still lying there, my body rises, turns it off with a quiet "click," and returns to bed. I roll onto my side, burrow into the sheets, close my eyes, and want to sleep. In a whisper, I beg Morpheus to dream the same dream. I hug my pillow as if it were the body of my dearest—oh, horror, what romantic thoughts—lover. I stop thinking. Darkness, darkness at first, and then...

- - -

A room appears. The room is empty, unpainted, small, say 3x4 meters. In the wall to the right, I know it's the west, a door with a glass, frosted glass pane; to the left, a huge window. I'm sitting on the floor, or rather, on a scattered parquet floor. Wooden. I see the planks—all together and each one separately. I stand up. I go to the window. A city. An infinitely vast city. Hundreds, thousands of buildings, factories, warehouses, production halls, skyscrapers, chimneys... A city shrouded in gray. Gray smoke mixed with the gray, or rather gray-red, sky. Suddenly, in the distance, a shape appears, indistinct and blurred, and then... an explosion! A distorted roar, but the flames are clearly visible, rising into the air, forming a dome of fire. Another one immediately follows. And another roar. Flames. A ball of fire. And so on and on... A dozen times. Before it all has a chance to subside, I hear the door opening and closing. Someone enters the room. I turn and see... Someone. Someone seems to be my friend Paweł. He comes and stands a little further from the door. I sit down next to him on the floor. He asks me if I have any money. Why? I want to leave, he replies. It's because of Them. It's Them.

"Them?" I ask, surprised.

"I want to leave, just leave," he looks thoughtfully out the window.

"What are they?

" "I don't know. Nobody knows. Maybe someone... someone..." he looks surprised, as if suddenly realizing he's forgotten something crucial. "People are going crazy, dying, riots are breaking out, it's all because of Them." If only we knew their nature... So - he suddenly changes the subject - do you have money?

I remove three planks of parquet. After a moment, I pull a jar from the gap that has formed. I hand him something, then suddenly realize they are two Dunhill cigarette butts. I read the inscription on the dark blue mouthpiece. I stammer an apology and pull out another jar—filled with pennies. My guest disappears. I go to the window. I look out at the city. And suddenly. I feel fear, an overwhelming urge to flee. I see, I SEE IT! It falls to the ground—absolute silence reigns. ABSOLUTE. It falls slowly, gracefully. It looks like...like...I don't know. I see the beginning of this Something, the end slipping away, invisible. It resembles a cuboid, a bit like a tent (made of canvas?), a bit like that tube passengers use to board an airplane. It's red. It falls to the ground in perfect silence. Near and far at once. There's a bang. A terrible impact. Dust rains from the ceiling. I'm shaking, I can't stand. A terrible fear grips me.

- - -

- Wake up. Bus... You'll miss the bus.

I breathe heavily. Again. Unfinished again. A dream that has haunted me for weeks. And yet, some progress. I've never managed to cross the train barrier. Until today. I stare at the ceiling. My breathing calms. I drag myself out of bed. The coolness of the bathroom I enter is pleasantly soothing. I slip into the bathtub and wash away the remnants of sleep with hot water. Another day. Another dies horribilis. I don't want it. I don't want the day. I want the night. Eternal night. Carpe noctem, you might say. Sopor aeterne appropinquato! I'm going crazy, slowly going crazy... My madness is indicated by my speaking Latin. With a heavy sigh, I leave the bathroom. Time compression—and I'm already at the bus stop. Around me, people are waiting for the bus. I left too late—I won't have time to smoke. I see a woman, nice hair, a coat—well, I'd give 1200 złoty—a leather handbag. She surreptitiously spits thick yellow saliva onto the sidewalk. A faint "splash" and suddenly she notices I'm staring at her. Shame grips her. She becomes real. Oh well, Sartre was right! The bus hums and announces its arrival. The bus ride is probably one of the most pleasant moments of the day. A feeling of isolation, separation from the world, from reality, from the whole rem publicam. Isolation lasting only—according to the proponents of time, linear time at that—about five minutes. And I already know what comes next... Nattering during classes, nattering during lectures, nattering during classes, nattering during breaks, nattering with friends, nattering with strangers... Nattering with the motor force—nattering is the vis vitalis of our existence. And then the rest of the day is spent smoking cigarettes, if anyone has any to offer, if not, then I'm left searching for larger cigarette butts from ashtrays when the break is over... And so I wait, still waiting for the night to come again, the sweet night whose servants will bring me dreams... No, a dream. One dream. Only This Dream. I want to dream it. I want to see the end of this dream. That's all that matters. The days pass as if they were a gooey mess—slowly, stretching, lazily. Hour after hour, it drags on incomprehensibly... Every morning I wake up, trying to recall even the remnants of the dream that haunts me—to no avail. Every day I go to the same places, see the same people, look at the same things, and in the evenings I smoke a cigarette, staring at the same red sky. Even that sky loses its value to me... Shadows... Sometimes only the shadows of this and that whisper incomprehensible words to me. I try to penetrate them, to understand them, but I still fail. Reality becomes saturated with gray, like raindrops on clothing, losing all meaning, nauseating...

It's evening already. Another evening. I slip into bed with a soft rustle. I rest my head on the pillow, looking away. Images from today flash through my mind... Quickly at first, then I notice that a black frame occasionally appears in the slideshow, and over time, more and more of them appear, obscuring the vision until darkness descends.

- - -

A flash. Then the screen flickers. A television. The news is being broadcast—in the style of Western stations like KRNT, ABCD, and so on. The face of an Asian reporter appears on the screen, and in the background, the smoking remains of a train can be seen. After a moment, a fireman appears, a man in his forties with a graying mustache. He begins to say that it's a terrible tragedy, that they did everything they could, but some people burned in the disaster, and others suffocated because of their fire extinguishers. I know. I know! I KNOW! I know that It caused the disaster! I know that It fell on the train! At that very moment, the screen shows the smoldering remains of that Thing. For some reason, I get nervous and turn off the TV. Or at least I think I'm turning it off. The image, somehow, disappears. I light a cigarette. I look out the window. A bloody sunset over an endless city. In the distance, a roar and a series of explosions can be heard, dark threads falling from the sky. It glows with the force of the explosion...

- - -

13:47. Tick. Tick. Tick. 20 seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. 40 seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick...13:48. The black hand, with a rumble of thunder, as if during a spring storm, moves slightly to the right. The explosion that announced the passage of another minute still resonates in my ears. I look around. A training room. A few people are taking notes, some are talking quietly, others are staring dispassionately at the walls, the ceiling, the windows. The lecturer is explaining something monotonously, probably aware that almost no one is listening, yet he persists in his foolish mission. I glance briefly out the window. My heart starts beating faster. In the distance, I think I see a threadlike shape falling from the sky. I glance timidly at my notebook. I read my notes. Okay. I look at my hand. Okay. I pinch myself. Okay. It hurts. So this isn't a dream. I breathe easier. This isn't a dream, I must have been imagining things. A short sigh of relief, and I begin to mechanically scribble something in my notebook. A sign of schizophrenia, Kępiński would say. A hypochondriac! People rise from their seats. I step out into the hallway. Instinctively, I head for the stairs. Knock. Knock. I descend. Knock. Knock. The intensifying stench of cigarette smoke informs me that I'm approaching Hades. So—surprisingly!—I take out my cigarette and with a flick of the lighter, begin the slow process of his (and my) death. I look around curiously, searching for interesting characters. Searching for my own Margaret, my own Sleepwalker. I inhale, stunned by the futility of my supposed search. I want to go home. I want to go to bed, in the evening, charged with hundreds of images and thoughts, hoping that at least a few of them—as reminiscences—will appear in my dreams. The smoking room is emptying. Time for another class. A lecture. This time, a lecture. So maybe I can...? I settle myself as sheltered as possible, at the back, resting my head on a nest made of arms. I close my eyes. I don't even notice when the noise around me fades...

- - -

The outskirts of the city. I'm on the outskirts of the city. Not far away, a transparent tube, like in science fiction movies, used to transport people, soars into the air; then it curves at a ninety-degree angle and disappears somewhere in the bowels of the city. The sky has cleared. We're talking. We're talking about the accident I saw on the news. A few people stand next to me. We're discussing the consequences of this disaster. Someone says it could have happened to any of us. I shudder at the thought that it could have been me. Suddenly, silence falls and in the distance we hear several successive explosions and flashes. We all look in that direction in silence. It has fallen from the sky again.

- - -

By the time I get home, it's already evening. Those twenty-odd minutes are usually spent thinking. About this and that. About college. About people. About the meaning, hehe, of life. Doesn't anyone think about that, at least sometimes? Probably only stereotypical, bald troglodytes... The sharp air hits me in the face. Autumn. For some unknown reason, it's my favorite season. And yet, I'm waiting for the snow. For the first white flakes that both children and old people involuntarily try to catch on their tongues. I have a craving for a cigarette. I'll wait until I get home. I don't like walking and smoking at the same time; it distracts me and focuses my thoughts on making sure no one asks me for cigarettes. Cars hum incessantly along the street. Streetlights blink indistinctly to life. The coolness, that pleasant evening/night coolness mixed with the scent of burning leaves and that indescribable autumnal aroma, fills my nose. I accept it with relish. I finally reach home. Knock. Knock. Stairs. Knock. Knock. I climb to the third floor. Inside, I strip myself of everything and, after inhaling a small amount of salutary tobacco smoke, I plunge into the bathtub. A stream of hot water washes over my body, exhausted by the day. It washes away all traces of it and prepares me for the coming night. I slowly sink into an ocean of fading thoughts. Everything evaporates from me. Thoughts, desires, longings; only old instincts remain. Homo antiquus. This is who I am now. And then I remember "Koyaanisquatsi." A terrifying image. Especially the alternating satellite images of cities and integrated circuits. Or maybe I was wrong? Maybe they were just cities? Or just integrated circuits? All the more terrifying. My recent love for the Machines melts away with each passing day. It turns into fear. Into a fight against the Gray. The water is getting colder, I turn off the tap, only a few droplets falling from the shower head. I dry myself off and get out. A quick glance at the clock. 2:24 AM. So I spent almost six hours there? No one reacted? Or maybe I came back later? Maybe the clock is wrong? Never mind. Time for sleep. Tempus antelucanus is approaching quickly... I burrow deep into the sheets, first turning on the radio quietly; there should be some good jazz at this hour. Jazz helps induce dreams. I close my eyes... Jazz helps with...

- - -

In the distance, I can see the city lights. It's pleasantly cool. I smoke a cigarette. The city is still teeming with life. Hundreds of lights from buildings, cars, and streetlamps. The balcony is at an incredible height. I inhale deeply. Suddenly, the smoke begins to swirl strangely, like ribbons of DNA in popular science films. I start to feel afraid, for some reason. And suddenly, silence falls. Absolute silence. Silence that isn't a monotonous screech in my ears. Simply SILENCE. And then It. It falls from the sky. Slowly, lazily, as if aware of its fall. It looks like...like...the details blur at times, then become incredibly sharp again...I can't see the end. It looks a bit like a tent again, only in the form of a cuboid with an infinitely long base. It's red, made of canvas, or at least it looks that way. On the sides, I see rows of plastic windows; sometimes it changes shape subtly, taking the form of those airstrips at airports where passengers board. As it slowly descends, I see what lies at the top of this Thing. They are—I think—sticks of dynamite, arranged in two perfect rows, parallel, yet curved at some strange angle, seeming to stick out slightly, yet at the same time adhere to the red material.

It's very close to the ground. And it falls with a loud crack—the balcony is now on, say, the fifteenth floor. This sets off a cloud of dust and smoke. It lies on the ground for a moment, then the first pair of dynamite sticks explodes. A deafening explosion and rising flames momentarily obscure the view. Then another one explodes. And another. And another. Buildings collapse all around, people scream, everything shakes. I stare at the entire scene in fascination

.

I'm delirious. I'm delirious during the day. At night. Everywhere. Sleep. Sleep takes over my mind. I can't concentrate on anything. I walk around like a sleepwalker. I only miss... I only miss... Well, I miss Sleepwalking. Sometimes I scream in the street, "Where are you?! They say a film clouds my eyes. The leaves have already fallen from the trees. Darkness is coming faster, and, as if to spite me, I've fallen into insomnia. I spend my nights listening to music, staring at the ceiling, or perhaps the sky outside... My dreams have fled, and I can't remember a single one. The wounds have healed. The awakenings are even worse than before. I wander aimlessly through the city. I scream to myself. In the empty room, the scream bounces off the walls and returns to me with redoubled force. There's no trauma. Only an undefined emptiness. Oh, if only youthful melancholy would return... Gazing at the world with ordinary, conventional, prototypical sadness. Now all that's left is biting my lip. Banging my head against the wallpapered wall. Waiting for sleep. Reality out of tune like an old tube television. It crackles, creaks, constant interference. There's no questioning, no searching for answers. Simply stagnation. Mindlessness. And traces. Reminiscences. Dream memories. More and more often. Objects that aren't there, falling in the distance. Figures seen only there. I stop recognizing the differences. Dreams become so real, reality so dreamlike. I don't want to wake up, I don't want to fall asleep.

- - -

Cold. A chilly evening. City lights below. I light a cigarette. Someone stands next to me. I turn around—a woman. Her heart is pumping like crazy. Her hair is fair, very fair, almost white. The details are sharpening, striking with their sharpness. She looks at me. She doesn't smile, nor is she sad. She simply is. She takes out a cigarette. I light it silently. She inhales deeply. She quietly exhales the smoke from her lungs, then with her left hand, the one holding the cigarette, she begins to gently rub her right cheek. Her eyes are now dark, now light blue, deep and...somehow perfect in their color. Absolute color. I don't know what to say. Suddenly she turns toward the city and stares into the distance. I follow her gaze. In the distance, a dark thread falls somewhere between the forest of buildings. After a moment, a fiery red illuminates the sky and her face. I ask timidly,

"What is it?

" "They are them," she replies thoughtfully. "Falling from the sky."

"Why?

" "I don't know. No one knows. Maybe it's a sign, maybe a punishment, maybe a warning...

" "And you?"

"Me?" She looks at me. "I am the key to everything..."

We watch in silence as dozens of objects fall. The city is consumed by a fiery glow

.

I get up. Slowly, sluggishly. Sleep explains nothing. Only the image of this woman remains. Frustration grows inside me like some kind of cancer. Back to university. Another day of babbling. The sky is so overcast today. It's probably going to rain. Her image... Her face... Her voice... I walk quickly, just to make it before the rain. I pass each stop. I feel more depressed than usual. A glass building gleams in the distance. I check my watch. 10 minutes early, great. I'll still have time to light a cigarette. Then babbling, returning, and waiting for sleep. For her. I pass the last—the initial—stop, briefly glancing at the faces of the people gathered under the shelter. The bus roars in, disgorging a few people. Suddenly, I stop dead in my tracks. I catch a glimpse of blond hair somewhere in the hazy reality. I keep looking at the woman standing next to the timetable... No... This isn't a dream. This can't be a dream. I look at my hand. I pinch my forearm. Pain. I can easily read the vulgar writing on the kiosk wall. This isn't a dream. Someone's just standing at the bus stop, and I'm foolish enough to confuse it with a dream. But I can't stop looking at her. She meets my eyes, then looks away, looking somewhere over my shoulder. I turn around, simultaneously aware of the eerie silence that has suddenly descended upon me. Beads of sweat form on my forehead.

Majestic, with a quiet sigh, it fell from the sky. It immediately kicked up a cloud of dust, and then a series of explosions began to shake the city.