Inspiration: Inception. I was toying around with the concept of dreams and after watching Inception for the nth time – here I am. I decided to write this sort of in anger that Marion Cotillard and Leonardo DiCaprio got snubbed at the Golden Globes.

Side Note: This does not address the plot of Inception whatsoever. But the film is what inspired me to write this, so that's why it's placed in the Inception fandom.

Dedication: This originally was supposed to be completed in November, but I found myself at odds with my hectic schedule. Regardless, this… short story? is for November Romeo – your stories always make me smile. Wanly at times, happily at others. As a side note, I loved Oink! Oink!

Experiment III Activated.

Dreamtime

It happened to me in a string of other dreams, and has the distinction of being the only one in my entire life that I can recall completely. All the others have retreated into a mist of forgetfulness. But alas, I have managed to retain this one, I pinned it down before it could float away and return to the place dreams originate. But to be perfectly honest, and I'm going to try to be, that gives me too much credit. If anything, I have been pinned down by this dream, and while I have never managed to repeat the experience, I always come back to it. For whatever reason, I can recall this dream as though it was a real event, a full flesh and blood experience. But I digress.

In it, I'm sitting cross-legged near the edge of a long, wooden pier, overlooking a lake of substantial size, like something you might see out of a National Geographic magazine or a brochure resort that tempts you to just "get away from it all." (clearly, I'm an exception to research that shows that men have more aggressive dreams than women). It doesn't matter though, as attractive as it is, the only thing at all within my view that could have been built by a person is the pier I'm sitting on. Surveying the murky water stretching out endlessly before me, I half-observe my surroundings. A hazy blanket of fog has rolled itself out over the lake, obscuring most of the opposite shore. I can see through at parts, though. I make out low, green mountains that curve gently, like a caress. I think the sun is shining, but I'm not so sure. It's no brighter than a normal day. It's probably cloudy, like a typical Vancouver day in November. The soundless air feels cool around my body, sits calmly with me. I feel free and empowered.

My mind is so empty I could hear my thoughts echo, were I to have any. It's like the fog and water: tranquil, unfocused. I suppose this could be considered meditation, but that's not quite how it felt. I just wanted to be somewhere quiet and simply be me. This place seemed very familiar and safe to me with its atmosphere cloaking me like a blanket. I hear someone – no, that's not right. I feel someone approaching me, stepping onto the pier. I seem to look around, to observe this newcomer.

He's a boy, looks roughly my age. Perhaps just shy of seventeen. His t-shirt droops over him and is mahogany red and imageless. His worn jeans loosely hang, barely clasped by an almost white, ashen belt. He's got pale white skin, but doesn't appear sickly. A few freckles are casually scattered across his cheeks, and his nose supports thin, wire-frame glasses that shield inquisitive blue eyes. But of course, the first thing I really notice about him is his hair. Styled slightly messily, the strands are a light shade of brown, the colour of cardboard. He is beautiful and it's odd, because I feel like I know who he is. And as he wanders towards me, I realize what is going to happen. I (the Me that would wake up and remember this in the morning) try to reject the thought immediately, not wanting to disillusion myself; be disappointed. However, the person who I am in the dream does not react with surprise. The action I believe will come isn't expected, exactly, yet it is familiar. He has reached me. I look up at his expressionless (thought not at all cold) face, waiting for what he may do (will he do it?). He seems to contemplate for a moment, and then he quietly bends down, eyelashes fluttering shut, and kisses me, and it's the most natural thing in the world.

It is short, but I will never forget it. His lips feel cold and wet against mine, like a spring rain. It is very soft, nothing like what you might see in those giant Hollywood movies where their goal is to devour each others' faces. He is just touching his lips to mine. He is just saying, "hello".

Then, he sits down beside me to look out at the lake with me, and that's when the dream fades and reconstructs into a different, entirely forgettable situation. As I am drawn into the next dream, I try to will him into it with me (I start to wonder, can I control my dreams?). And it works, sort of. I find him in the next dream, but it's not the same person, somehow. Just a shadow.

When I wake up the next day, I can still vividly recall the feel of his kiss – the texture, the temperature, the pressure. I find myself unwittingly drawn back to the inception of that one dream among many, drawn back to thoughts of him. But I also know with confidence, however, that I will never see him again. So I can't leave this dream behind/this dream can't leave me, because I cannot let the image of that boy leave with it. He left me too soon, and I want to find him again, find out who he is, what his name is, who I was (was I me? was I someone else? was this just a snapshot of someone else's life?). I want to reply "hello" back.

I want to dream again.

Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated.