ScribblePOP 3.0

Sometimes, I wonder if the massive amount of epic films I watch affect my projected reality. I definitely catch myself accidentally reciting lines from films during conversations. I wonder if I actually mean these words, or if they simplify what I wish to actually articulate. There is nothing worst than uttering something romantic, then quickly realizing that, “oh, actually Brad Pitt said it before,” then “I hope she’s not a moviephile and is now questioning my authenticity.”

Now onto this dream:

I was an undercover reporter for some type of military and social exile. The dream opened on a black asphalt road. It rained sideways. I cushioned my camcorder between my elbows, but was quickly found out by the guards.

I was brought to a POW camp with interiors entirely made of light pine, like a summer camp cafeteria. I was questioned by evil German officers of the most persistent and unjust kind. I also had a baby that I snuck away to one of my fellow reporters, who was not captured. In addition, I entrusted with one of the wayward British soldiers, my only other valuable, a camera.

The second act of the dream is now a blur to me, which is unfortunate. It consisted of trials and tribulations of my escape attempts, all ending up in failure. By the end, I realized the only chance I had to getting out was to fake my own funeral. I was put inside a coffin, where I remained for days. I heard sermons given in my name. I was able to drill a small hole that allowed me to keep a lookout for my British soldier correspondent. I was worried about my camera.

He came to the funeral. I climbed out of my coffin and inquired about my equipment, only to find out that it had been lost in transit during the flight from Berlin to London. Appalled, I heard the landing of a spaceship, which supposedly carried the queen of England, who had heard about my false death and final escape attempt, and was out to get me.

I ran hard. On the stairs, I stumble upon a thin Asian man in thick glasses. He was my escape accomplice. Together, we broke free from the building (really just ran down the stairs, it wasn’t that difficult). We found ourselves a human-sized mason jar, dropped into it and slid down the slippery black asphalt road, all the way to Hong Kong.

Years passed and I was old with spots. I found a job as a hostess at a Chinese restaurant. I was talking to my escape accomplice at a table when the front doors to my restaurant opens, and in walked a young and lean African American man in fashionable shades, thick bodyguards behind him. “My son!” I exclaimed, we ran to each other and embraced deeply.

I guess this was where the dream ended. I woke up to the gentle tick of getting an email on my iPhone.