The Sunshine of a Dream - Part I

By [http://ezinearticles.com/?expert=Ivan_D._Ivanoff]Ivan D. Ivanoff
I was walking on the street when I heard a shattering sound. Everything around me started falling apart. Only I was standing still. It was beautiful - a world of glass breaking to pieces, and in the same time - disturbing, to be the only one alive to witness.
A strange world, a strange place - I could turn my head around and see everything that I wanted to see. I was like an artist. With a simple hand gesture or a nod of the head I could make buildings appear or disappear. I could make the world end and create a new universe - exactly the way I wanted it to be.
I was powerful. Was I a god?
A simple dream, but it was so real, that I didn't want to wake up. Only if a person could live in such a world - where you create everything the way you want it to be. Where you can make everyone do exactly the thing you want from them. You in the center of the universe, isn't it great?
But I did wake up.
I was sitting in a chair. A strange old man was looking at me. He was holding a notepad and a pen.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"You really don't remember me?" The man laughed.
"No!" As I started thinking I couldn't remember who I was either.
"You are a funny guy! You never did this trick on me before, and I thought I had seen everything that you can offer."
The old person got up from his chair, went to what seemed to be an old wooden globe. He pressed a button on the side of the globe, and the top part opened to reveal a secret compartment. In it there was a bottle of old scotch and two glasses. He got the glasses out, gave one to me, and the other put on a small table fitted next to his chair. He opened the bottle of scotch, filled up my glass and poured some in his.
"Last time you were here, you said you were having a strange dream. Have you had it again?"
Last time? What was this man talking about? I couldn't understand. About a million questions popped up in my head. Who am I? What am I doing here? What was this dream? Does this guy know me?
From the looks of it, he was a psychiatrist. He had small, but elegant glasses, a clean shaved face and eyes, which were creating the illusion that when he looks at you, he sees right into your mind.
The room was quite nice. There were two chairs, which were exactly the same, maybe to create the comfort of equality. Next to his chair was a small table, where he had put his notebook, pen, and the glass of scotch. Everything else in the room was rather unimportant to me - a bookshelf, a desk with a chair behind it, and a window from which you could see the whole town. It was a beautiful little town, but I couldn't remember anything about it. Maybe I grew up here? I didn't know.
Everything seemed so gloomy. My memory was not responding, and all I could think of where daisies. Why daisies? In my mind there was a picture of white daisies in a vase. Did they represent something?
The old man was talking, but I was not listening to him. I was constantly thinking of the daisies. Suddenly I felt a sharp headache. My head started hurting and as I thought harder the pain was increasing. I couldn't stand it, and the psychiatrist seemed to have noticed.
"What's wrong Damien?" - He asked.
Was my name Damien. Ah, the pain! I could not stand it. My eyes felt like they were bleeding. Were they?
"It hurts!" - was all I could scream. Then my eyes closed. And everything went blank again.
And when the time came, he stood there waiting. He realised that the answer has never been real. He realised that the question is the answer itself.
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