A Midsummer Night's Dream

 

I had a dream.

I dreamt of a girl. Her face shifted every second but she had long, red hair. I dreamt of hugging her. I dreamt of sitting by a riverside hill, crying, and telling her in whispers that I wasn’t sure if I was a man. She didn’t say anything.

I dreamt of going back in time, like those trashy wish fulfillment Chinese web novels, except instead of taking advantage of my foresight, I just fucked up again in different ways informed by my current wounds. That’d make a good story, I thought. Subversive.

I dreamt of an old teacher that I never had. His name was Mr. Jay, young, Korean, long hair tied into a man bun, and a bright smile on his face. We were gathered in a dark classroom, for some reason, everybody hanging their heads low. Mr. Jay stepped out of the crowd and told the Guy In Charge that he had to go somewhere, and clumsily, but still with the biggest smile, gave us some corny motivational speech. I chuckled. “I like this guy,” I said to the student next to me. Nobody said anything. 

The title A Midsummer Night’s Dream just came to me because I was thinking of writing about my dream. It’s only now that I realize today is quite literally, the middle of the summer and the middle of the year. Although that is mildly poetic, it doesn’t change the fact that I haven’t read this play, or any Shakespeare. The only knowledge I vaguely know of is from Tim Rogers’ Action Button Review of Tokimeki Memorial.

Is that an important piece that makes up a part of me? Are these the parts that make up me? I don’t know and I don’t know anything. I remembered yesterday, on a taxi ride to a department store. As my mind wandered off, attention drowned out by a too-quiet Latvian radio, I thought to myself that I never ever figured myself out. I’ve only been able to define myself in negatives to this day. I’m not like these Chinese people. I’m not like these Latvians. I’m not like these athletic sports guys. I’m not like these try-hard students. I’m not a man. I don’t want to be like you people.

I know this is why my brain’s random chemical firings pained me so much. In a quite literally, cerebral way, I got reminded that these things are In My Head, or these things have been chosen by me to remain In My Head. But I can’t grasp the significance of them all by myself. My personality feels like parts of IKEA furniture without the manual. Is that manual somewhere out there? Is somebody else holding the manual the whole time? I don't even own IKEA furniture. I don't know why I bothered with this metaphor.