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Dreams are the door to the soul; nightmares a window into the past.
I used to believe that night visions were silly things in general. There wasn’t much scientific basis around the phenomena other than psychology papers about it, but even those were fluid and could only offer a few words into how to turn your nightmares into dreams, and vice versa. They were simply happenings that didn’t have much explanation to them, on the reason why they exist and why is it important to us as humans.
I’ve met a few hundred people in my life who loved to talk about their dreams. How they saw their crushes confess their feelings to them, or how they won the lottery, sailed across all the continents, or even had children in those visions. Some complained about theirs, that’s usually because they hated their nightmares, and who’s to blame? They whined about seeing vampires, chased by zombies, being haunted by a dead loved one, or being hunted by the unknown. The others said more hilarious things, like planting a big orange in the sky, having a pet tiger, or being part of a cult that worshiped a famous movie character.
I have to admit, all of these tales were entertained in good fun, but I was never affected by them. The topic itself wasn’t entertaining to me and I never had night visions before, even when I was a child. I simply saw an endless void and when I woke up, the moon was gone and the sun had woken me up. My life was just like that, and I never was angry about it. Rather, I was grateful since it never caused me to have crazy emotions or scary situations. It was more fun to hear about them than experience them yourself.
Besides, I never really believed in the importance of dreams and nightmares. Sure, they can lead you to see all crazy sorts of stuff, but they never did become true. And, at the end of the day, they’re all just some weird happenings inside your brain. Most of them are forgotten when the dreamer wakes up.
That was my life most of the time, a continuous hesitancy to believe in the power of those you see in the night when your whole body stills for a moment. I was foremost a scientist — a researcher and a robotics technician. Things that were not associated with science were insignificant to me, for as long as night visions didn’t turn into reality, I would never believe their existence.
It was like that for quite some time.
Until one day.
Something odd had happened to my younger sister.
I don’t know why, but she started thrashing and crying around in her sleep. So much so that it was haunting. In those periods, I would always wake her up and coax her back to sleep, but slumber never did claim her. It started happening regularly, every night a new nightmare that terrorized her to no end. Since I felt so sorry for her, I would usually excuse her from school- she wouldn’t be able to focus if she had no rest. But even when she was worn out and dozed back to sleep, she always would always wake up with another night's trauma.
Situations like this were getting out of hand. I knew I had to find the reason behind this and put a stop to it. Putting value in dreams wasn’t my specialty since I never saw the noteworthiness of it all, but I could turn them into something beautiful that would make her forget all about them.
A scientist above all else, I created something magnificent worthy of the world’s praise. I called it The Dream Machine, a mechanism that can transform your visions into beautiful pieces of art, regardless of how you feel about the dream. I tested it on my sister and it worked successfully, I never understood the meaning behind my work, but it looked astounding. Soon, business boomed and I was able to gain much attention for my latest output. Everyone loved my invention, and how I was able to create something beautiful from something so horrible.
All except for my sister that is.
I never grasped why she seemed so distant and appalled at my machine. It helped so many people and yet, the very reason I made this object wasn’t even happy with my progress. “Sister, why are you so gloomy? Did you not like what I had made?” I asked her once.
“Never did,” was her simple reply.
“Why not? I have conjured marvelous things from stuff as vile as nightmares, including yours. Are you not happy?” I inquired once again.
“That’s the thing. You never bothered to solve a problem, especially when it comes to my being. Your solution always involves challenging the scientific world and revolutionizing an industry, an industry that continues to create problems for you and me. And, frankly, it’s starting to seem like you care more about fame and money than me,” she ranted, obviously upset with me.
“Well, what do you want me to do? I’ve done so much for you and yet you’re so ungrateful!” I scolded her.
“Well, maybe if you were open to talking about why I had nightmares in the first place, this issue would’ve been solved by now!” She shouted back, frustrated.
With that, my sister stormed off. I was a bit furious too. What was she talking about? What could I have said and done that made her so mad? It angered me so much, and somehow, it hurt too.
For so long, I’d been putting off emotions and feelings since I never deemed them substantial in my life. But now, after witnessing the rushing waves of my tears come back, I realized how much it hurt to have raw emotion return to you after bottling it up for so long. I entertained the fact that after all this time, with all the philosophies I’ve adopted, maybe emotions were important. Maybe dreams had more significance and it was high time I stopped reducing them to nothing.
I talked to my sister about it, apologizing for my behavior. She then went out of her room and pointed to the first painting I’d made with the Dream Machine. I had to admit, I never really paid attention to it until now. It was a sketch of a woman similar to my sister placed in a confined space, with tall walls closing in around her. She looked sad, and miserable, curled up in a ball with no one to talk to.
“Why do you think the Dream Machine manifested this picture?” She’d asked.
“Well, I’m not good with psychology, but you seem alone in that picture. Like, you’ve had no one to talk to. That all the walls around you seek to imprison you and that makes you feel sad. That you had to keep everything inside and — oh!” It clicked in my head, the explanation finally registering in my mind.
“‘Oh’ is right,”
“I have a lot of mistakes I need to fix when it comes to you,” I told her, completely apologetic.
“That’s fine. You’re already taking the first step, and that’s all that matters.”
Edited by Maleeha Asif Damda
Cover page by Francine Keesha
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