Dream; A series of thoughts, images, or emotions occurring during sleep. An experience of waking life having the characteristics of a visionary creation of the imagination.
Daydream; A state of mind marked by abstraction or release from reality.
Dreamer; One who lives in in a world of fancy and imagination.
There are different definitions, terms and opinions on what dreams are and can be attributed to.
A dream can refer to a blissful escape from reality, or a pit into the most horrible thoughts imaginable. It can make the dull seem dynamic and the beautiful seem boring.
Sometimes you dream during the day, sometimes at night. But whenever you do dream, it is often an experience that drastically removes you from real life.
However, there are those who attribute dreaming and dreams to non-existence, to non-realism. They may argue that when you dream, nothing is real. That when you dream, nothing really matters. And when you wake up, it will have had no significance.
To these people, dreaming… is nothing but the absence of meaning.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
A loud bell rang out across the whole school, signaling to students and staff alike, that the school day was over. The teachers often stayed quite a while even after school was no longer in session, whether it be to plan their classes for the next day, grade papers, attend faculty meetings or the like. In reality, it was truly only the end of the school day for students. Some of them cheered as they realized their boring classes were over. Others simply thought "It's about time". Perhaps another group of students regretted the ending to a day filled with learning. One of the students, however, barely qcknowledges it at all.
He is completely aware of the five high-school boys to his left discussing who the hottest and ugliest girls in their class, grade and whole school are. The student is also aware of the eight girls who freely express, in a kind way, their jealousy over the ninth girl's fortune at having a parent who went to a clothing store before the food market and, as a result, got the last dress of the hottest fashion design for the season. His brain processes the two teachers talking behind the classroom's main desk, one who is thirty-two, the other who is thirty-five, and assumes that they are on their third date. Either way, he is sure that they have been on previous dates in the past.
He clicks his ballpoint pen one time and slides it into a pants pocket while closing his notebook, which is aligned vertically on the desk, as well as the textbook which is organized in the same manner, though on the opposite side. Both books are quickly lined up with each other, the lighter, smaller notebook being placed on the heavier textbook as he wedges the fingers of one hand beneath the latter so that he can pick them up and hook them to his side as he pushes the chair back and stands up.
It is Friday, the seventh of September, and school has just re-begun.
Fortunately, for most of the students, work has not matured into a full rapid-water river and is still trickling along like a tiny stream.
The Russian Revolution is the topic of this last class of his, and he has already read about it in numerous books before-hand.
Homework for the night was to write an essay discussing the vital causes and effects of the Russian Revolution. At least, it is offered as a "bonus" assignment for the students to do if they want an extra "boost" to their grades from the beginning of the year. Most students likely wouldn't do it, as it wasn't required. Still, there were those who were worried that they might not do so well and others that simply like doing work. They would likely finish it during the weekend or perhaps even tonight. This student had finished it in class while everyone was reading in the textbook. It wasn't that he had skipped the reading in order to get extra credit, rather, he had already read from the textbook the night before and thus didn't need to do it today. Even in his early grades, the high-school boy, or young-male as he preferred to be called when required, had gotten A+'s and high honors in every subject. Including extra ones such as physical education and creative writing.
He pushed himself away from the desk and lightly shoved the chair back underneath it while quickly walking out of the room and towards his locker out in the halls.
Though it was quite possible for him to have waited for other students as well, the "young male" disliked having to wait for the slower, lazier people in front of him to make it to their lockers before being able to move at his full pace towards his own.
The school was old, and its craftsmanship was impressive, unlike modern-day buildings; the expansive, tall, ancient halls made of stone with polished, dark grey marble floors complimented the pristine, silver lockers. Alright, maybe pristine was going a bit far.
His locker, number one-hundred-eleven, was the same one he'd had for the past two years. It was not a coincidence that his locker had three matching numbers. In fact, he'd requested from his parents, who were among, if not the wealthiest family in the entire city, to be given this locker. Compulsiveness was not the cause for this. He simply liked eleven. And if a locker could be one-hundred-eleven, all the better.
As he walks down the halls, other students run by him, eager to get out of the building as soon as possible. One in particular, collides with him as he turns a corner and both are pushed backwards. However, while he simply takes a step back, the other student, a senior, crashes to the floor. It didn't sound like a particularly hard landing. No cracking or any other sound can be heard above the repetitive and noisy footsteps and discussions.
"Watch where you're going, alien." The senior tells him while pushing himself back up, both looking at each other with offensive, un-amused expressions.
He stares straight into the older boy's eyes as he retorts.
"Does your voice always have that annoying, nasally quality to it?" He asks, the sophistication behind his fair, but not effeminate voice adding insult to injury.
The senior scowls and sticks his face closer.
"What was that?" He asks in an intimidating voice.
"Zyrtec can be found at any neighborhood Rite-Aid or Walgreens. Though I suppose it's too much to ask that you know how to open the hard, plastic packaging.
The fierce expression his "opponent" wears breaks apart like stone when hit by a sledgehammer.
"Ha-ha. Aren't you funny?" Nathan proclaims as their expressions both lose any offensiveness.
"When'd you think that one up?" He taunts the boy.
"About ten years ago, when we first met. Though back then it was excusable, now it's just embarrassing."
Nathan continues to laugh as he shakes his head.
"Fair enough. Hey, you doing anything this weekend, Reeve?"
One of the teenager's eyebrows arches.
"I'm flattered, but my ideal date involves a bit more estrogen, a lot less testosterone and a whole lot more cuteness."
"Pah. Every girl I talk to can barely say a whole sentence, I'm so adorable." His friend retorts as more and more students pass by the two.
"In blissful awe or horrific terror?"
"You're horrific terror."
Reeve shook his head while walking past Nathan.
"Try to put some more thought into the next one. As for this weekend. No. I'll meet you at "Chemistry" tonight."
Nathan chuckled.
"You always know what's going on. What? You read the future or something?"
Reeve stopped walking away.
"There is a modernized Native American quote; 'Do not try to read the future; carefully follow the path which leads to it.' I don't need to read the future, because I always know everything that's happening in the moment."