His attempt to be conscious of the flow of the dream was futile. The story that he created while he tried to sleep did not catch on; but a dream was there nonetheless. Naive - typical of him, he enjoyed the whole journey; led by the nose; thoroughly, right until the moment when the wheels failed and the screecher beetle tried to tear a part of his skin off. He didn't even remember that in that moment of ridiculous chaos, he wanted to wake up, which means that he somehow knew that it was a dream but failed to rectify that, the only fact from all the input that he experienced throughout the whole nap; until he typed this.
But, before he started typing this, he tried to go back to sleep, in a successful effort to recall the path he took, and in another to recall the exact moment that the dream started - the split second in which his mind shuts its eyes in that surreal fantasy world he created and got delinked from, and reattached to the real one, the one he now helplessly know he is far from capable of getting in without getting lost.
Failing the latter, he decided to go back to sleep. And then to do the whole thing again. Why not? If it works, he's just killing two birds with one stone and there really won't a bad outcome out of a failed attempt.
But as he was slowly constructing the new fiction, block by block,
he remembered her.
The landscape, the unfinished plot and the rest of the characters fell apart, not that it mattered. He wanted to reshape his dream so that it revolves around her, but he stopped as soon as he got started, realizing how little the satisfaction, even if he managed to be with her in that desperate chimera. So menial, compared to actually seeing her, the soul lifter, the real magic, in the real world.
And his heart broke and fell apart too, knowing that that too, is but a dream.
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