Blair Sandburg was dreaming of the jungle, of dark green depths and heavy air. A waterfall crashed into rocks a few meters away, roaring into a beautiful symbolic violence that granted insight but little comfort. Through the veil of its spray he could make out the rising spires of an ancient temple, crumbling now and ruined by the sweep of time. He knew if he turned he would see a village of grass huts and the beckoning shaman who lived there.

He also knew that when he turned he would see no wolves and that was a bittersweet balm that helped sooth the paranoia that haunted his waking hours. It helped to know that some parts of his inner landscape remained pristine, untouched by the forces that seemed determined to control the rest of his life.

In his dreams he walked his past, the past that seemed at once so close and yet so impossibly distant and faded. He smelled again the sweet passion flowers of the rain forest, felt again the soft clay dust beneath his searching fingers as he felt for artifacts lost for generations. He experienced the simple pleasure of watching both men and women walk free and naked, babies at their hips, brown skin wrinkled and stained with the sweat of real work. He knew once more the heart pounding awe of watching men dressed as beasts dance by firelight, tracing out a primal play of death and welcoming. He remembered the pride of finally, finally gaining the trust of the tribe and being accepted into its ranks, of being allowed to view the hidden rituals that defined the people by their fears and gods. He knew the pain and struggle of helping to hunt, clean, erect walls made of sticks strapped by leather. He knew the grief of watching the people he had lived with, worked with, and loved driven from their homes by the ever-growing monster that was civilization. He knew the power of fighting that monster…and sometimes, rarely, winning.

In his dreams Blair Sandburg cried. In his dreams he allowed himself to mourn himself, all that he had been and lost. In the waking world emotions had become something to be pushed aside and buried because he knew what was expected of him, needed and demanded of him. Somewhere along the way not regretting had come to mean not caring, as if happiness was something granted just by the knowledge that he had, after all, done the right thing. Only in sleep could he release his pain, the inner hurt and shock that had never quite moved on to acceptance. In dreams he was free because they disappeared on waking, leaving only dim visions of green and gold with no real feeling to be shamed by.

He pretended that the salty wetness on his pillow meant nothing at all.

But everyone has to stop pretending someday.