Real and Unreal, Part Two

Real and Unreal, Part Two


“Wake up! It is half past ten,” yelled Z. “You are soaking in sweat. What in the world were you dreaming about?”

“Uh, nothing really,” mumbled Perry. “I have to go bathe, and get out of these clothes. My train leaves at 3 today.”

“Good morning,” seductively smiled the Whore, as we shall refer to Marcella now.

Perry stared at the Whore, then retreated to the bathroom for a warm shower. As the water drizzled on him, Perry could only think of his dream. Who was Estella, and what did she want from him? Some people believe in the concept of astral worlds and other dimensions that cannot be described using our 5 senses. Supposedly, a soul is encased in several layers, one of which is the human body. After our death, the body is released from the soul, and we become astral beings. While in our human state we need oxygen to survive, in our astral bodies we need the lifetronic force, light, to keep us alive. Light. Astral worlds are nothing like the transient physical world, for they are filled with colors never seen before, and everything is so pure and beautiful. In the astral dimension, beauty is not judged by the way one looks, but rather the radiating love that is present inside of them. The friends and family we had on earth are present in the astral world, thus proving that the power of friendship and unconditional love is eternal. Astral beings are able to penetrate our physical world, but it takes a great amount of energy and time for humans to penetrate theirs. The easiest way for humans to contact astral beings is through dreams. The dead people who appear in our dreams exist; not as humans or anything we can touch or feel. They exist as a thought. It is a consciousness that prevails through space and time. How does one describe the mind and the thoughts we have? How do you quantitatively describe our consciousness?


The dream continued bothering Perry. He had come to Sheffield to spend some time with Z, but to his despair, he was no longer with L, and even worse, he was making love every night to the Whore. Z and the Whore walked Perry to the train station.

“Goodbye, Z,” said Perry in a solemn voice near the station’s platform.

“It was nice seeing you again,” replied Z. “I hope that you will come visit again. Next time you should stay here a little longer than one night. I am hoping to try to find a job in London, so I’ll let you know how things turn out.”

“It was nice meeting you,” said Perry to the Whore.

“Same here,” replied the Whore.

Perry got into the train, and realized how many things had changed about himself and about Z. He had always respected Z what he stood for. Here was a boy who taught himself how to play the keyboard and guitar, who had gotten drunk with the local vicar, and who had slept with the perfect girl in school. A boy who was going to be a rock star, scientist, and a politician. He had the ability to change the world- the person who people look up to generations after their death. He could have been the Gandhi, the Beatles, or the Bowie of his time. But now he was relegated to a little flat in Sheffield, working 9 to 6, five days a week for a pharmaceutical company, and living with a whore. I used to know this girl some years back who was the valedictorian of my high school. She lettered in swimming, track, cheerleading, and softball, and she was the county volunteer of the year for 3 years in a row. I used to sit in class and wonder if there were any imperfections in her. She seemed so unreal, yet she was so real. Teachers worshipped her, and she was hailed as the “most likely to succeed” and I was hailed as the “most likely to fail.” She got accepted to Princeton University, but she dropped out during the middle of her freshman year after becoming pregnant. I haven’t heard from her since, and I doubt that she is contributing to society in a way that people had once expected. I find it unfair of Perry to be disappointed in Z, but at the same time, Z was the leader. When the leader has fallen, and no one has assumed the responsibility of leading the way, the cause perishes. Perry was feeling that the cause had died when Z became ordinary. What hurt Perry and me is that Z had so much potential. He was so intelligent, witty, yet wise, and he had this powerful gaze when he looked at you which made him godlike. Looking into his eyes one could see years of wisdom and the wonderful future that was awaiting us. But like all my heroes, Z failed. Z became real for Perry’s senses, and this became too unbearable for Perry to comprehend.


The train ride back to London was quite nauseating because the woman next to him was vomiting chunks of chicken in a plastic bag and two little children in the front were crying incessantly. He was trying to get some sleep, and these three idiots were making his life even more miserable than it was.

“Hey you fucks,” he yelled at the incessantly crying children. “Can’t you shut up for a minute?”

Petrified, the children retreated into their seats. The passengers next to him were astonished, but no one wanted to say anything for fear of instigating a fight. He had had a miserable week and had contemplated suicide, but he couldn’t think of an interesting way to die. His business ventures in Japan and Malaysia had collapsed dramatically in the last week, and two days earlier Sarah, his daughter had just been diagnosed with Wilson’s disease. He had spent the weekend in Manchester with Angelina, his mistress of 13 months.

“I have been dreaming about you for days,” he said. “I have been thinking about you for weeks, and I am glad I am in your arms again.”

“Do you think about me when you fuck Mary?” she replied. “Does she scream when you rhythmically ride her, and do you scream too, James?”

Whenever he made love to Mary, she would scream whenever she had an orgasm, but Angelina never screamed. Screaming for Mary was a way to tell her husband that she loved him, and that he was pleasing her like no other. Angelina didn’t scream for she wanted to be in control and power during lovemaking. Screaming is a sign that you are the victim, helpless and powerless. Women who are raped (or hate fucked) are oftentimes said to scream in hopes of grabbing someone’s attention to convey that they are in pain and under attack.

“Did you orgasm?” he had asked Angelina the night they made love in Brussels.

“Why do you ask?” she replied.

“You didn’t scream,” he responded. “You haven’t screamed ever since we started making love.”

“Oh James, every woman is different,” she said. “I am not Mary.”

He had met Mary when they were in business school at NYU. Both of them had grown up in England, James in Liverpool, and Mary in Manchester, but by fortune, or misfortune, they had met at NYU. Three years after graduation they got married in a small church in Manchester, and a year later, Sarah was born. They lived in a small flat in Manchester, about 15 minutes from Mary’s parents, but eventually moved into a luxurious house when James started getting promotions at his job. Mary was an extravagant spender, and by the time James became senior executive of his company, Mary was throwing massive parties for so-called friends.

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” he said to her one day. “I don’t know the person who I married. You are not real to me anymore. You don’t exist in my world.”

“I hate you James,” she replied. “You are always wanting to control me. Well I am a person and I am real.”

She began to remove her clothes until she stood naked in front of him.

“I am real,” she cried as she pounded her chest. “Here, feel my tits,” she said as she grabbed her breasts. “James, it is real. I exist. I am real, you stupid fuck.”

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