Stream of Unconsciousness

In my dream, I walk up to three urinals. I step into the middle, flanked by the stainless steel defenders of dignity. After finding myself through a maze of denim and cotton, an older man approaches the urinal on my right. I cannot see his face, but time has left a topographical map in his wrinkled skin and tendrils of hair reach out from the depths of his ears. As he urinates, he narrates. He tells me how he fell in love with Johnnie Walker. How he paid and paid for the pleasure of Mr. Walker’s company, forsaking the love of all others. And when he couldn’t afford even the least of Johnnie Walker’s ministrations, he’d give himself over to lesser hands rather than take it as a sign to return to the ones who truly loved him. All I could do was stand there, bladder ready to burst, my stage fright in full effect the entire length of his monologue. Finally, his stream of words ended, and he shuffled away.

Ready to finish my task and get back to my life, I close my eyes, only to hear the thumping steps of a large man stepping to the urinal on my left. With a torrent of confidence, the giant relieves himself in silence while I retreat. As he continues and continues, the capacity of his bladder relative to his enormity, I can no longer stand the thrust of burning knives in my urethra. I speak. At first, only in trickles, but then a surge of regrets. I pour out my failures in life, at work, and in bed. I hold nothing back until I am empty of all my secret shames. There they lie, in a puddle for all the world to see. I head to the sink and wash away the final traces of my confession.

I wake to find myself lighter, flushed of the toxins I’d taken like medicine. Rolling up empty bottles in sheets soaked with last night’s mistakes, I toss it all in the trash and head to the bathroom. I stand at the mirror without my bottle-thick glasses, finally naked enough to see all that I have done. Time to wake up and get back the dreams I lost.