I was walking home along partially emptied by the evening's time streets, holding a plastic bag in my left hand, while my usually full but not at that time purse hanged on my right shoulder. A few days ago my PE teacher has told me that I better watch that shoulder because of scoliosis. As usually I nodded and nodded, feeling almost guilty for my bad physical shape even though everything else that she has said was good. Maybe one day I won't even remember that warning, and will carry bags in my right hand or on my right shoulder without that nagging in the back of my head.
Anyway, even though I didn't have much to do, I was almost drained by the lack of sleep, bad mood and the spring itself. Usually spring gives people something new, something good or at least promising. My springs were making me miserable for some years and this one wasn't going to be an exception. The weather was great, the sun was going down, but it wasn't too dark yet. I would personally prefer darkness, but that's an idiot inside me talking. The last rays of the sun also were my protection, for the streets which I have to walk or cross weren't exactly the safest ones possible. They weren't the most dangerous too, but my paranoia never requires too much of danger, only a vision of it is enough to freak me out.
I have already felt something bad when I have seen some people, but the situation seemed to stabilize as I was passing by mostly people somewhat like me - tired and flat, at least on the outside. I always have to add the outside bit, because my outside has almost nothing in common with my brooding inside.
You see, I am a daydreamer. The worst kind there is. There are daydreamers who simply don't care. They either don't care about their dreams or about their lives. Quite comfortable, but not something I can relate to. I daydream and then feel guilty for wasting the time. Or I do some work, emptying all my reserves and then cursing myself for not getting a pause to just relax and dream. And since I am lazy the first scenario happens much more often.
I was actually walking because I wanted to walk my way home instead of taking a long way with the bus, which I also had to change halfway through. I read quite an engaging book, but suddenly I just knew I can't spend half an hour more in buses. I got out and went home, and I have already described you how it has begun.
One thing more about my daydreaming is that it is really rich for events. Maybe this haven't actually happened to me, maybe I was walking and imagining how it would be happening, and the vividity of the dream mixed up my tired and populous (with real and not real people and thoughts) memory in a way that I believed in the dream. Or, which is worse, not only has it actually happened to me, but I have dreamt about that before. Although it's never happened to me, I keep opening this door in my dreams all the time. I dream about a guy proposing to me, and I have a line there, when I say, "Do you know that I have dreamt about how this would happen?". More than that, sometimes I get carried away by that line and me and my imaginary companions would wind up discussing the phenomenon of daydreaming.
So, shortly speaking, I don't know if that has actually happened. But a guy whom I overtook some 50 meters ago just went to me and asked if I speak English. I was so fed up with the day, my misanthropy was on fire, so I answered "Yes" quite casually. But when I have heard him answering something, all these feelings were gone, though I remained sulk on the outside.
It's really amazing that I have managed to hear him saying, "I wasn't expecting to bump into someone who knows English, I thought your folk has problems with that."
I replied that I didn't have to follow the basic stereotypes and asked about the reason for him being here.
"Ah, I was told that I was born here," he confided, "so I have decided to go to look for my roots."
"Hmm, so have you decided to wander on the streets or do you know where are you going?" I asked casually, even though on the inside volcanoes were erupting with joy and fear and all the feelings which could've been at least a bit appropriate.
"Nah, I follow the spirit of adventure," he responded.
"Well, what are you going to do when I get home? It's not all that easy to drive from here."
"Yeah," he agreed, "especially if consider that I don't know Russian."
I smiled widely, this wasn't surprising at all. "Yeah, our language is somewhat hard to grasp for native English speakers. Or—" I paused— "isn't English your native language?"
For a moment before he has answered I felt so awkward I couldn't think about anything else. It was so easy talking to him, like he was a long-lost friend of mine who has suddenly come back to me. I was absolutely sure I haven't seen him before, and yet something was bringing my introversy and shyness down.
"English isn't my first language, but you can call it native, it's as good as that. But tell me, what it happening in this part of the city? Be my guide while I try to find my roots." He smirked, and that didn't make me shiver with fear.
I looked around, unsure about what to answer. And produced, "Well, I don't walk here often, but it seems there is a lot of things for cars. And—" I pointed at a building— "a company that deals with electricity."
He saw the letters MPCK and voiced them as an English speaker would do, and I giggled. "What?" he asked, puzzled.
"It's obvious you don't know Russian. Do you know that our alphabets are different and that you should read it more like MRSK?" I spoke cheerfully.
"Ah, damn. This is so strange. Shame on me, how could I forget?"
He seemed genuinely upset, and I said in a hurry, "Don't worry, there was a time when English was just like that for me too."
"Yeah, but is English your heritage language?" I shook my head, and he continued, bitterly, "I don't actually hope to find anyone, I have come here too late."
I looked at him somewhat examining and couldn't hold my tongue, "You don't look old enough to be late anywhere."
"Looks don't matter," he replied.
"They do," I debated, "because a lot of people don't care looking close enough."
He glimpsed and after a pause expressed, "It's nice to speak with someone smart. This universe is full with stupid creatures."
"You don't know for sure that I am smart, I haven't given you any hints on that," I blurted bitterly, following my usual self-criticism.
"Well, as you said, looks do matter. Also you know English, —"
"But I could've been born in a different country or have lived there," I interrupted him.
"Well, were you born here? Have you ever been to an English-speaking country?"
Yes to first, no to second, and he smiled. "So why all this charade? You are smart and this is a great thing about you, don't you ever underestimate it."
I wasn't exactly reassured, but I nodded.
"Say," he added, "that I am an alien. Would you believe that?"
Okay, I thought to myself, this is going places. What if this is a test of sorts? "You don't look particularly alien to me," I responded.
"Ah, I am not saying that I am an alien, but just imagine it. Would you believe it?"
One of my traits I cherish the best is honesty, and obeying to my inner voice I replied, "No, probably not."
He grinned and continued, "So I could try to read your mind or to travel in time with you and you still wouldn't have believed me?"
Now I was afraid. Psychos and freaks sound delightfully interesting in books, look attractive in movies, but in real life they're primarily scary.
"I wouldn't want to let you do any of that," I claimed finally.
"Why?" He seemed to be genuinely surprised by my answer.
"Well, there's not much good in my mind that I would want to share. And time-travelling is tempting to make all sorts of stupid and impossible things."
"Such as?" he questioned.
"Nah… that constant desire to fix the mistakes of the past, you know...:"
How should he know, I thought. But he looked so gloomy and, perhaps, he did know.
We walked in silence, but when I was able to see my house and precisely at the moment when I wanted to say my goodbyes he said, "Let's pretend I am an alien and I can read minds. Let me try to pull something really good about you. Who knows, maybe I will guess just right?"
"No," I refused. "Look, this is my home over there and I am tired, so—"
"I implore you," he said simply, not wasting energy on long persuading. I stared at him, trying to find the source of danger or some other disturbing things, but he simply stood there. Well, what bad can it do to me? He can't be an alien, he doesn't seem to have weaponry.
So, eventually, I nodded. He placed his hands around my head and suddenly I couldn't think. Streams of consciousness were passing through me, faces I have never seen, events I have never participated in, languages I have never heard…
"You have such vivid imagination," he said, and this has stopped. "I know what you want, and you will get what you want, I promise you that. Just never let your dreams go."
"And what do I want?" I retorted.
"A guide. And he will come. One day you will find him, or he will find you, just hold on to your imagination." He looked deeply in my eyes, and I, who usually avoided eye contact, stared unblinking in his eyes, feeling again that I known him for ages. "Why are you so shocked?" he grinned all of a sudden, "have I guessed right?"
I just kept staring at him. My mind was revolting, it was at war with itself, and I couldn't say a word.
"Well, I have to go now. Thank you for helping me around here."
He turned and went away, so I screamed, "Wait!" Lots of questions were on my mind, but as I have seen his face again I knew that I shouldn't ask him anything.
"I don't know what is it that you want, but I wish you luck with that."
He was serious again, and he nodded as if the words I said mattered a lot to him.
As he walked away and disappeared into the horizon, I tried to come back to reality, and I couldn't. I warned you, I don't know whether this was a dream or not, but I had to relax and lay in my bed for hours to shake off ethereality.
Years have passed since that day and I have never saw him or dreamt of him again. I keep coming back to this in my mind, but nothing new adds up. I don't even want to think why is it so fixed. It makes this more real, and how I wish it to have actually happened to me! But, well, again, maybe it did. Maybe not. In the end of the day I get to decide, and I think it was and is real.
And nothing else matters.
