Chapter Thirty: The Heart of the Matter

I said hello to Roger as I clocked in, then sat down at my desk and began to work. It was another boring day. Actually, it was the same boring day, just repeated over and over again. Wake up, go to work, come home, repeat. Intersperse with meals and sleep. Shake vigorous and you get one life unlived.

I still remember parts of my dream. The ORACLE and the Ivory Woman. The writer and his notebook. And especially Tulip. I don't know why. They were just part of the dream.

I wish I could dream it again. I wish I could just continue the dream where I left off. I wish so many things these days.

Wake up. Go to work. Come home.

It's the small, mundane things that distract me from my life. There is a stray cat I see sometimes around the neighborhood. I left an open tin of tuna out once for it. A small gesture of kindness. I don't know why I did it.

Wake up. Go to work. Come home.

I no longer believe there is a conspiracy against me. Why would there be? I am not important. Nobody around me is important.

Wake. Work. Home.

I stay awake later and later each night, my eyes trying to pierce the veil of night, even knowing that nothing is behind it. I guess I don't see the point of sleeping and dreaming of dreary things.

Wake. Work. Home.

And then I found myself on the edge of the overpass. It was on the way to work. I stopped and looked out at the sea of cars, all of them driving at breakneck speeds, going to their own jobs, find their own ways in the world.

And I couldn't stand it. I stood on the edge of the overpass and I wanted to jump. Jump and end my repetitive existence. Break the infinite loop.

I stood on the edge of the overpass and thought about the end of my dream. "Home," the writer had said. Home is where the heart is. Home is where we keep ourselves hidden away from sight. Home is where we can see our true selves.

I stood on the edge and felt myself fly away. I let go of what I was and it floated like a ghost into the sky.

And then I walked home. I walked into my apartment and there they were. The writer, with his notebook, and Tulip.

"Took you long enough," he said.