LJ Idol, Season 9 - Week 25
Title: What Is Real, What Is a Dream
Topic: overwatch
It is late at night in mine and Conrad's tiny two-room flat, our cheap student rental, and I am sitting on the empty bed, for Conrad is snoring lightly in the other one, and I am watching him sleep. I should not still be awake. I have university lectures in the morning. And yet I am afraid to take my eyes from him, afraid that if I were to look away, he will disappear.
We have been in Bern for just over two years. We are safe here. I am safe here. But we were too long apart and I suffered too much, and I do not know if I will ever feel entirely secure again. And so I sit here, on the other bed, not three feet away, and I watch Conrad sleep.
I watch his chest rise and fall under the blanket, I listen to his even breathing, and I do not move. I do not want to disturb him. I learned to be silent and still during the war, and while I do not wish to dwell on the circumstances under which I acquired those skills, I cannot deny that there are times they serve me well. I do not think Conrad would be angry with me for staying awake to watch him sleep when I should be getting my rest as well, but if he were to wake, he would tell me to stop being silly and come to bed.
I would like to. But I cannot. I must be sure of him, of these rented rooms, of this city and our place in it. I must be sure this is not a dream. I cannot break myself of this habit, this need to know beyond any doubt that what I see before me is real. I once lay on a bed in Conrad's parents' house and could not sleep for fear I would wake and find it had been a dream, that I was in a relocation camp or hiding in a hayloft, and not on a bed in a familiar house in a city I used to know. In the two years since that night, I cannot entirely convince myself that I am indeed free and safe and that the things I see before me do truly exist.
Conrad shifts in his sleep, and then his eyes open and he blinks at me.
"Oskar," he says. His voice is tired and affectionate. His eyes fall closed again and he smiles. "Why are you watching me." It is not a question. Perhaps he is too near sleep to summon the energy for a question.
I cannot answer him. What do I say? That I must be sure he is really there? That I am still afraid that the life I believe I am making for myself is in fact a dream? That I wish to see him, the whole of him, because there were too many years when I could see his face only in my memories?
I am making up for lost time, I could say. He would understand that. But I cannot tell him that I worry he might not be real. He would laugh, and call me foolish, and wrap his arms around me and whisper "You certainly feel real enough to me" in my ear. He would kiss me, and tickle me, and I would have to shush him. And when I am not convinced by his touch and his whispered words, he will tell me he does not know what to do with me, what to say to me, and if I am going to dream us into a new life, perhaps I could dream us into a nicer flat. So I say nothing, because I do not want him to mock my irrational habit, this hard habit I cannot force myself to break.
"I cannot sleep with you staring at me," he continues, yawning. He opens his eyes again, shrugs his arm free of the blanket, and holds out his hand to me. "Come to bed. You will not be able to concentrate tomorrow."
I want to tell him that I do not care, that it does not matter. I must satisfy myself as to the truth of him before I can join him. I must be sure that I will wake next to him, in a sagging bed, the sounds of the Swiss city that has welcomed us outside the window. I must be sure that I will wake into the same life from which I fell asleep.
I am working very hard for the things I want, for my degree and the professional letters after my name, for the opportunity to live with Conrad the rest of our lives, for a future in which I am in charge of my own fate and no one will be able to tear my world away from me ever again. I believe I have survived to this point because I am stubborn and I was lucky and because God loves me, and I cannot keep working - I cannot keep living - if I am not completely sure that what I see and what I do and what I touch are real. I must be sure to the core of my being that the life I now have with the man for whom I survived is not a creation of my traumatized brain. I must be sure that I will be able to keep this life that is so important to me.
I am a rational man, and I know Conrad is really here with me. I know this life is real, these beds, those books, the university where I am allowed to work towards a medical degree. But it was merely a dream for too long - a daydream of things I could not have, in a place I could not go, in a future I could not imagine - and I cannot always shake the fear that it is a dream still.
I am a rational man, except on the nights in which I am not.
"You are being silly," Conrad tells me. "Whatever you are doing, it is silly. I will have no sympathy for you when you fall asleep on your breakfast tomorrow morning, or if you doze off during a lecture. I do not care if you lie next to me wide awake. But I will not sleep while you are watching me."
He is trying for stern, I can tell. But he is only half-awake and his voice is soft around the edges, and perhaps it is that, the gentleness of his tone, that finally pulls me off the empty bed and under the blanket next to him. I wish to reassure him, perhaps, that I am not being silly, that I am entirely sane and rational. I do not want to keep him up.
"I did not want to wake you," I say. "I was afraid you might not be real." I did not plan to admit it, but I am tired enough that I cannot stop myself from sharing.
"You are a strange man sometimes." He throws his arm across my chest and his leg across my thighs, and he rests his head on my shoulder so I can feel his breath on my neck. "I am very real, I can assure you. Very tired, but very real."
He settles against me. I put my arms around his shoulders, as if to keep him from flying away, from disappearing. He is solid and warm next to me. His hair smells faintly of soap. His breathing is deep and even. I wonder if he is dreaming, and what he is dreaming of.
This is your life, Oskar Nadel, I tell myself. This will still be your life when you wake. You have not come so far and worked so hard for this to be a fiction.
I want so desperately to believe it. I hope that someday I do, that someday I will look around at my life, my world, my Conrad, and know that it will not vanish and none of it will be taken from me. I will sleep without fear of what I will find when I wake.
But that is sometime in the future. I can feel my anxiety lessen as I listen to Conrad breathe, but it is still there. It may not be there when I wake in the morning, but it will return, and there will come another night when I will keep myself up until I can reassure myself that I am not dreaming, and I do not have to be afraid.
Topic: overwatch
It is late at night in mine and Conrad's tiny two-room flat, our cheap student rental, and I am sitting on the empty bed, for Conrad is snoring lightly in the other one, and I am watching him sleep. I should not still be awake. I have university lectures in the morning. And yet I am afraid to take my eyes from him, afraid that if I were to look away, he will disappear.
We have been in Bern for just over two years. We are safe here. I am safe here. But we were too long apart and I suffered too much, and I do not know if I will ever feel entirely secure again. And so I sit here, on the other bed, not three feet away, and I watch Conrad sleep.
I watch his chest rise and fall under the blanket, I listen to his even breathing, and I do not move. I do not want to disturb him. I learned to be silent and still during the war, and while I do not wish to dwell on the circumstances under which I acquired those skills, I cannot deny that there are times they serve me well. I do not think Conrad would be angry with me for staying awake to watch him sleep when I should be getting my rest as well, but if he were to wake, he would tell me to stop being silly and come to bed.
I would like to. But I cannot. I must be sure of him, of these rented rooms, of this city and our place in it. I must be sure this is not a dream. I cannot break myself of this habit, this need to know beyond any doubt that what I see before me is real. I once lay on a bed in Conrad's parents' house and could not sleep for fear I would wake and find it had been a dream, that I was in a relocation camp or hiding in a hayloft, and not on a bed in a familiar house in a city I used to know. In the two years since that night, I cannot entirely convince myself that I am indeed free and safe and that the things I see before me do truly exist.
Conrad shifts in his sleep, and then his eyes open and he blinks at me.
"Oskar," he says. His voice is tired and affectionate. His eyes fall closed again and he smiles. "Why are you watching me." It is not a question. Perhaps he is too near sleep to summon the energy for a question.
I cannot answer him. What do I say? That I must be sure he is really there? That I am still afraid that the life I believe I am making for myself is in fact a dream? That I wish to see him, the whole of him, because there were too many years when I could see his face only in my memories?
I am making up for lost time, I could say. He would understand that. But I cannot tell him that I worry he might not be real. He would laugh, and call me foolish, and wrap his arms around me and whisper "You certainly feel real enough to me" in my ear. He would kiss me, and tickle me, and I would have to shush him. And when I am not convinced by his touch and his whispered words, he will tell me he does not know what to do with me, what to say to me, and if I am going to dream us into a new life, perhaps I could dream us into a nicer flat. So I say nothing, because I do not want him to mock my irrational habit, this hard habit I cannot force myself to break.
"I cannot sleep with you staring at me," he continues, yawning. He opens his eyes again, shrugs his arm free of the blanket, and holds out his hand to me. "Come to bed. You will not be able to concentrate tomorrow."
I want to tell him that I do not care, that it does not matter. I must satisfy myself as to the truth of him before I can join him. I must be sure that I will wake next to him, in a sagging bed, the sounds of the Swiss city that has welcomed us outside the window. I must be sure that I will wake into the same life from which I fell asleep.
I am working very hard for the things I want, for my degree and the professional letters after my name, for the opportunity to live with Conrad the rest of our lives, for a future in which I am in charge of my own fate and no one will be able to tear my world away from me ever again. I believe I have survived to this point because I am stubborn and I was lucky and because God loves me, and I cannot keep working - I cannot keep living - if I am not completely sure that what I see and what I do and what I touch are real. I must be sure to the core of my being that the life I now have with the man for whom I survived is not a creation of my traumatized brain. I must be sure that I will be able to keep this life that is so important to me.
I am a rational man, and I know Conrad is really here with me. I know this life is real, these beds, those books, the university where I am allowed to work towards a medical degree. But it was merely a dream for too long - a daydream of things I could not have, in a place I could not go, in a future I could not imagine - and I cannot always shake the fear that it is a dream still.
I am a rational man, except on the nights in which I am not.
"You are being silly," Conrad tells me. "Whatever you are doing, it is silly. I will have no sympathy for you when you fall asleep on your breakfast tomorrow morning, or if you doze off during a lecture. I do not care if you lie next to me wide awake. But I will not sleep while you are watching me."
He is trying for stern, I can tell. But he is only half-awake and his voice is soft around the edges, and perhaps it is that, the gentleness of his tone, that finally pulls me off the empty bed and under the blanket next to him. I wish to reassure him, perhaps, that I am not being silly, that I am entirely sane and rational. I do not want to keep him up.
"I did not want to wake you," I say. "I was afraid you might not be real." I did not plan to admit it, but I am tired enough that I cannot stop myself from sharing.
"You are a strange man sometimes." He throws his arm across my chest and his leg across my thighs, and he rests his head on my shoulder so I can feel his breath on my neck. "I am very real, I can assure you. Very tired, but very real."
He settles against me. I put my arms around his shoulders, as if to keep him from flying away, from disappearing. He is solid and warm next to me. His hair smells faintly of soap. His breathing is deep and even. I wonder if he is dreaming, and what he is dreaming of.
This is your life, Oskar Nadel, I tell myself. This will still be your life when you wake. You have not come so far and worked so hard for this to be a fiction.
I want so desperately to believe it. I hope that someday I do, that someday I will look around at my life, my world, my Conrad, and know that it will not vanish and none of it will be taken from me. I will sleep without fear of what I will find when I wake.
But that is sometime in the future. I can feel my anxiety lessen as I listen to Conrad breathe, but it is still there. It may not be there when I wake in the morning, but it will return, and there will come another night when I will keep myself up until I can reassure myself that I am not dreaming, and I do not have to be afraid.