I’ll tell you a secret about fear: it’s an absolutist. With fear, it’s all or nothing. Either, like any bullying tyrant, it rules your life with a stupid blinding omnipotence, or else you overthrow it, and its power vanishes in a puff of smoke.
– Sir Ahmed Salman Rushdie, The Moor’s Last Sigh
Experts claim that we dream all the time, but I seldom recall the conjurings of my mind at rest. Sometimes I find myself waking up tired, deflated, and even defeated. At other times, they leave me disappointed and regretful at the external source of their sudden, jarring disruption. Rarely, however, do my dreams take on a prophetic undertone, premonitory in nature, an I-told-you-so vibe hanging in the stale air of the room I find my awakened self within. As a devout non-believer in all things metaphysical, I’ve confined the subject of “meaningful dreams” to the realm of pop fiction. If possible, something to be approached with a healthy dose of scepticism and humour. Why? I like to think of the mind as a house with a room of mirrors somewhere at its centre. We can add or remove furnishings, but that one room remains unchanged in its purpose – to reflect. We catch a glimpse of ourselves whenever we enter or pass it by. Our being, a kind of jigsaw puzzle comprised of light and its absence, angles and curves, odours and sounds, touch and… taste? Yeah, why not. The value proposition of a good rest far outweighs whatever glimpses we might manage to shove hastily into the tattered pockets of our short-term memory before they are swept away by the ebbs of oblivion. But that’s just me. Let me tell you about a dream I forced into the light of objective reality.
Friday 21st of October 2022, 08:45 AM UK time // Luton Airport
As the black of the night gave way to the milky white of an overcast day, I wasn’t thinking about what awaited me at my destination – Iași. It’s the second-largest city in Romania and the cultural capital of a nation of some 19 million people. Mere three and a half months prior, I didn’t even know of its existence, and now I was slowly making my way onboard a WizzAir Economy flight bound for the destination. Of its three hundred thousand urbanites, my mind was fixed on one, and one alone. But more on that later. After a smooth take off, I found myself staring out at our surroundings, wondering at the marvel of flight mechanics and the technologies that enable a blind climb through an ocean of dirty foam. Thirty minutes later, we finally slice through and trade the unknown for a rough patch of turbulence. Anyone who’s flown has probably thought about it – if the plane malfunctions, what can I do to survive a crash? Snippets of the safety briefing, more a guideline to how to die thinking we’re doing something helpful, replay in my mind, but I feel too tired. After three to four blackouts (sleep) and the softest landing I’ve ever experienced, the passengers and I walk towards border control, bathed in golden sunlight.
Iași oozes with history, the old and new blending seamlessly like something out of Deus Ex: Mankind Divided. The air is filled with the sounds of church bells and the smell wafting from various food stalls. Specialty coffee places litter the city, and if it weren’t for my sweet company and the journey’s short duration, I could find myself staring at my surroundings for hours on end without tiring. Photos don’t do the place justice, so I wasn’t even trying. And did I mention I struggled with a splitting headache? Yes, dehydration followed me everywhere, but I couldn’t resist a hot cup of coffee or a glass of Martell XO whenever the opportunity presented itself. For the most part, my host couldn’t hide her astonishment at my expensive tastes while I struggled to convey my complete obliviousness towards the exchange rates at the time. Three days and two nights of unease, dispelled on occasion by my restless companion’s attempts to find something to like about me. Yes, we did kiss. A moment I won’t soon forget, accompanied by gentle caresses. My first intimate human touch in 3 years; her curiosity and probably a sense of guilt or confusion or maybe a desire to console me for my failing to charm and/or impress. And it’s probably unfair of me to say these things, but that is how I felt – like someone who had overstayed their welcome.
Less than 72 hours later, and one of the worst flights in memory, I returned to London – physically exhausted, mentally confused, and emotionally heartbroken.
…
As we approach the last stop of our lives’ journey, I cannot help but wonder what happens with all the passion never fully expressed, hardly experienced. What happens with a desire unanswered and so deep, if it were an underground drinking water source, it would be as vast as an ocean? Will I ever learn to accept ambiguity with the same ease trees accept their leaves falling? 35, and still more questions than answers.
tsvetoslav shalev 
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