I am at a cliff's edge.
A Palestinians group of men that took me in as their own during my adolescent descent from straight age overweight football lineman to debaucherous alcoholic recluse, are swimming in the pool of water beneath me.
I jump in, they are laughing, bonded, carrying on. I attempt to grab big John my best friend at the time by the hip, but he slips through my hands. The water is moving fast, I am drowning, the chasm between us opens up.
There is a door, I walk through it, my grandmother is sitting on her favorite couch. She looks about the age of 99 right before she passed. I attempt to get into her eyes so she can see me but she does not see me.
Panicked, I carry on, running through another door to find Alejandro Inarritu, the most talented filmmaker in the world. He is sitting at a table, I remember he once mentored me before realizing I didn’t have what it takes. Archetypally he has shown up before.
I realize I am in a dream, I am yelling at him, but he can not hear me.
Like figurines or one dimensional paper cut outs, there is a lacking dimensionality and connection between myself and the carousel of characters.
Rage filled, I find another room, a restaurant filled with hungry guests. A spotlighted table remains empty and I pull out a chair to finally sit down, eat, and get what is mine. I am hungry.
Just then a large fat overweight adolescent boy sits on top of me, he strikes me as familiar. I immediately and without thinking pull out a knife and began violently stabbing him.
Killing him dead, I rise from the table, turning to finally take in the attention of the room, but no one is looking.
I scream at the top of my lungs, waking up.