During the debriefing I struggle to subdue my pounding heart and hold down the corners of my mouth, which keep creeping stubbornly up; I am distracted by my feelings and keep having to ask the doctor to repeat his questions. It doesn’t matter though; the doctor’s face seems to subtly mirror and in fact anticipate all of my responses—as though my answers are only a sort of proof to an equation he has already written down—and I feel as though I’m talking to myself, as I have a habit of doing: that our conversation is like someone alone, thinking aloud.

Back at home, my mind is obsessed, dwelling on the feeling that washes in waves over me in wake of the narration, the specifics of which, as always, I can’t remember. I am reminded of a part of me that I had forgotten, and I feel an intense desire to forget my present self and go back…

I find my self—a pre-adolescent boy—in an enormous abandoned park towards the end of afternoon. In the center of the park is a large pedestal, inscribed on each side with the word Faith. This strange monument draws me, compelling me to climb upon it and from there to survey the fantastic scenery.

In this park, there are no people, no thoughts, and no confusion: only infinite beauty. Gargantuan redwoods give way to stretches of grassy plains on my right. I can make out bands of wild horses on these plains, and the joy with which they run in their freedom brings tears to my innocent eyes.

Placid lakes stretch to my left, and beyond that a tall slender waterfall sends clouds of mist on the breeze to kiss my face lightly. I can see the ocean in the distance ahead.

I turn right to see behind me but almost fall over, as my feet are disobliged to move with the rest of me. Looking down, I give a start. My feet! Where are they?! Then, experiencing the bizarre sensation that the scenery around me is rising, I make the connection, feeling simultaneously relieved not to have lost my feet and terrified at the comprehension that I’m actually sinking into the pedestal!

I have heard it said about quicksand that struggling will only hasten the process, so I remain still, and sink slowly and stiffly, like a toy soldier forgotten in a child’s mud hole. I glance over my shoulder once on the way down, finding behind me a redwood forest leading to the foothills of a large, snow-peaked mountain. Something about this scenery terrifies me, and I quickly twist back. It particularly disturbs me that there is no pathway through the forest.

The fear, as though deriving its power directly from this physical source, disappears from my mind once my eyes have turned from the icy remoteness of the mountain and the profane randomness of the forest and refocused on the ethereal scenery to my front. Instead of feeling terror as I descend further into the wet cement, I am overcome by nostalgia. There it goes: the picture of the world that I have loved passionately for its innocent beauty is falling upwards into an irretrievable dream as I sink into darkness.

I try to capture the picture in my mind so that it might remain after my head has sunk beneath the foundation. Imposing cloud pillars towering almost to the heights of the atmosphere are transcended only by wispy cirrus ghosts that, despite their distance, seem within reach when singled out by my focusing eyes, while infant cumulous puffs drift and shape shift just above me, adding depth and texture and a sense of time, of every dimension, and a transitive sort of significance to the picture. The sun sends its rays reflecting off the clouds, the lake and the ocean, and it is captured by mist rising from the waterfall and translucent dust clouds raised by the horses, imbuing the park with feathery light…

Presently, I am in school, listening as my teacher lectures on the dangers of the pedestal. Apparently, the proper technique is to stand on the corners where the cement is dry.

“Try spreading your legs and placing one foot on either corner—like this. May I have a volunteer?”

A student marches to the front of the classroom in answer, but before I can see his face, the scenery changes back, and I am once more sinking into the pedestal, under peach and gold clouds.

Looking around, I find the entire classroom standing attentively to my left. My teacher is using my plight as an example to the other students, pointing out the consequences of not standing on the edges. He asks the volunteer student to approach the concrete platform and demonstrate the proper technique for the others. My head is almost underneath the pedestal as the young man steps upon the foundation. The words “please help me” claw their way from my throat just before my mouth fills with wet cement; then, glancing up at the student, my eyes widen with surprise. The student, whose eyes are locked upon mine, mirroring their astonishment, is me…

Passing from the dream into consciousness, at the point where the insights of both are briefly close enough for a charge to pass between, I witness such a spark, an epiphany. I have nearby a writing utensil and paper, quaint but effective, kept for these occasions, and I do my best to put down the thoughts that come furiously, shaking my hand as I write.

“I think I will always feel guilty, if for no other reason than my secret knowledge that there are certain things about myself that I simply don’t want to know. I lack the courage to face these truths. I am a coward. How can I live knowing that I am such a coward? How can I live understanding that I am nothing like the version of myself which I aspire to and which I project over the real version in an attempt to convince myself otherwise? I don’t want to know who I really am, yet the secret knowledge of my character never leaves my conscience alone. Why do I feel guilty for who I never had any choice but to be? How can I not feel guilty?”

But the epiphany, which shone brightly in my mind while I wrote, has died out like a firefly in my jar of words, and reading it back to myself now fully awake, I’m no longer sure of its relevance to my dream. I’m still pondering this when I arrive at the Institute and prepare for the next narration, which is postponed because of the longer than expected discussion of my dream with the doctor who requests, as he always does of the things I write, to keep the letter for further review.