Moment. Um.

by Lawrence J. J. Leonard

Sometimes dreams are just about being in the moment.

     “Am I dreaming or are you?”
     “A little of both,” he said.
     “You are not making this easy for me.”

     Then I drew a long draught from the tankard set before me. The honey sweetness of the lager was too smooth not to mention. Did he order for me? I seemed to have been asking out loud. He just smiled as if to say I did it myself.

     The man sitting next to me at this bar had a cat on his lap. The cat was ignoring me. Probably too caught up in itself. Then, I thought the man may have been talking about the cat and not to me.

     “Your cat, is it an illusion?”
     The man then offered me some sugar. Why, I do not know. Did people in this bar need sugar for their beer? Maybe it isn’t beer after all. I gazed down at the tankard and sniffed the foamy head. No smell.

     “So, if your cat is not real, then neither is my beer, eh?”
     “You’re starting to catch on, my boy,” he said. “Maybe I am not even drinking this cup of coffee, either.”
     And he picked up his cup of coffee. It still steamed as if it had just been poured. The cat didn’t seem to like that. It began to purr, displacing the din of the bar with the rumble of its throat. Some sounds can be so annoying.

     “Cat hair. On your hands. You have cat hair from petting it. Her. Him.”
     “This dream of yours. You see what you want to see.”
     “I want to see that cat turn into a walking stick and have you trip over it on your way out.”
     “You should relax.”
     “You should shut the hell up!”
     “We are a succession of motions in time, aren’t we?”
     “Speak for yourself,” I said. “You could have a vomited hair ball on your lap.
     “Either way the cat is not here, either.”

     Then, I roared. “Which is it?”
     “Just live in the moment. What do you want this dream to –.”
     “Shut up! Either you know the answer, or, you don’t. If so, drink your coffee.”
     “I can’t,” he confessed. “I am a terrible procrastinator.”

“Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
 As dreams are made on; and our little life
 Is rounded with a sleep.”

“The Tempest,” Act 4, Scene 1  ~ William Shakespeare

Copyright © 1960-2015 Lawrence J. J. Leonard  All rights reserved.

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