Timeclock by Matthew Graybiel

Author:Matthew Graybiel [Graybiel, Matthew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-02T00:00:00+00:00

Entry #15

How To Stop Breathing

I jumped so high, so fast, and so suddenly, that I hit my head against a shelf that was mounted to the wall. Some people sleepwalk, I, apparently, sleep jump. I hoped this wasn’t going to become a recurring thing for me, and I shook it off. The shelf, that is. It had broken into smaller pieces that landed on my head and shoulders, but not my knees and toes, in case any of you were reminded of that song.

I looked down at myself, also looking down on myself in disdain, only to find that I no longer had on the shoes from the dream, nor did I have the coat or any of the ugly, naked man’s other articles of clothing. I am not entirely sure why I had expected to still have them, considering dreams don’t often carry over into reality like that, but I was still stunned a little.

It could have simply been from the bump to the head with that shelf. The shelf that now lay in pieces on the floor by my bare feet.

I suppose my sudden jumping and sudden shouting “Ow!” awoke everyone else, because now everyone else was awake and asking me mundane and insensitive questions like “What happened?” and “Are you okay?” and “Can I have your coat?” Once everyone had figured out what the racket was all about and had decided that they did not want to play tennis, everyone wandered back to their little areas of the room to ready themselves for the day.

After taking turns using the restroom down the hall and up the stairs and down the hall, I spoke at great length to the others about my dream and how overdressed I had ended up being. Tiffany looked disgusted by the thought of the ugly, naked man, and I assured her that her reaction was indeed very correct. Michael didn’t say much, but so far, I haven’t exactly known him to be quite as talkative as he could be. Some kids just don’t say a lot, while other kids say a whole great deal of things. In my experience, it’s the ones who say a lot that actually have less to say.

I was one of those kids, and now I am one of those adults. I never have much to say, and I say a whole lot of it. It’s another way to make yourself sound and feel important and intelligent. Write that one down.

Seymour looked a bit concerned upon hearing the details of my dream and finally spoke up. “I told you before to remove your eyes with the spoon,” he said in a rather downtrodden tone.

“No, you didn’t, Seymour,” I replied. “I think I would have remembered something like that.”

“I did, and you didn’t listen,” he said sullenly. “Or perhaps I merely thought about it and forgot to actually tell you.” His demeanor perked up a bit at this thought. “I do that sometimes, you know. I’m pretty sure I told you that when we first met.

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