Lucid

She longed for sleep but achieving it was rarely an easy endeavor. Something so natural and so necessary had become an exertion. As soon as her head hit the pillow, neurons started firing in protest, sparking her left hemisphere into overdrive. Thoughts flooded her brain. Every night the same, a body worn from the day versus a mind that was waking up. The descent through the three stages of NREM was far from smooth. The initial production of alpha and theta waves was lengthened from the average seven minutes to an anxiety-filled twenty to thirty. Did I pay that bill? Could I have phrased that differently? Trivialities morphed into potential catastrophes.

She tossed and turned. Eventually, sleep spindles were produced, which slowed her brain down just enough to allow delta production to start. She faded and reawoke in REM. The air was heavy with the taste of salt. Bright rays of sunlight heated the smooth white maze of adobe structures around her. She remembered this place. Bridges of dark wood connected the small buildings, which seemed to float upon the water. The sea was a shade of turquoise nature could only aspire to achieve. It was uninhabited but far from lifeless. The methodical lapping of the waves against the wooden pilings lulled her into a trance. She wandered along the familiar pathways. She never entered the buildings, solely peered into the windows, and imagined people occupying them. Time stood still in that place. It faded, and she awoke. Three am.

When she closed her eyes again, the village was gone. She found herself in a market possessed by the urge to search. Instinctively she knew where to find that which she was seeking. She moved forward through the colorful square. People flooded the cobblestone streets, which she navigated with confidence. The allure of the merchant's wares was powerful, causing a frequent pause in the journey. Jewelry, spices, bright colors, exotic scents. A combination of the familiar and the foreign. She veered off into a back alley.

The scenery morphed here, brick to wood, like log cabins. In place of windows and doors were sheets of colored clothes. She slid one aside, revealing a dimly lit cubical. Whenever she awoke in the market, she would visit her old friend. Long dark hair fastened in a messy nest upon the top of her head, she sat elegantly upon a tattered cloth cot. The woman's smile gave ignition to a long-dormant ember within herself. She smiled in return and continued on her travels through the hordes of people, bumping shoulders, brushing hands until the street ended at a long red cross-arm. Like the ones you would find in a parking garage. To the left, there was a path leading towards a beach. This beach was not beautiful; it was tumultuous, and the waves forced a person to walk close to the rocky embankments.

She stepped forward pace after pace, an invisible string guiding her. To her right, the ocean raged, and to the left, rocks braced a large wall. Her gaze moved upwards along its medieval stonework. Thirty feet up, it transformed into open blocks of inaccessible scenes. One after another, as if looking into the back of a dollhouse. She continued walking until she reached a jetty that worked its way up the wall instead of out to sea. The distance had morphed. The surface had become much further. The jetty offered a direct path to one of those exhibitions. She began to ascend the rocks towards a fluorescently lit room. At first glance, it resembled a barbershop, but as she approached, it became clear it was a tattoo parlor. The scene came to life as she closed in. Robotically, three men moved about their tasks. Only one of them responded to her presence. He was much older. Gray curls surrounded a pruning face, and around his neck hung a necklace with a brilliant emerald as its pendent. He smiled and plucked the jewel from its casing, placed it in her hand, and met her eyes.

She awoke to her alarm beeping insistently. Which was more dreaded, the process of waking or sleeping? She laid there trying to reorient herself to the environment. As the scent of the dream world slowly left her nostrils, she weighed the price you pay through time for the ability to lucid dream. Your memories become distorted, the lines between reality and dream blur. It was somewhere in that blur that she desired to endure.