I begin in off-white thermal underwear. I dance through town, this place in which I RL live. Early spring is in effect. I leap and pirouette, twirl and bow.
An artist brush is in my hand. I flicked colors at things, dipping my brush in the colors already available, making everything bolder, brighter, sharper. Although it goes on for a while, that’s all to the dream.
It’s a younger version of me, a hybrid between my teenage self and my middle-aged individual. I smile thoughout the dream.
I land in another dream. I’m with another man. We’re in blue hospital scrubs. I know, I’m a med tech. We’re in a small city. Situated on several hills, a bay embraces the land. It’s a busy place, full of hurrying traffic, vehicular and on-foot.
A hue rises from a hospital on the hill. One of my peers shouts, “It’s a success.”
I am jealous. I wanted to be part of that. I feel cheated.
But I congratulate him and the rest and spread the news of the success. It was an arduous and dangerous operation but the patient was doing well. We were pleased. We’d helped develop catheters which saved the patient. This was their first use.
A surgeon came, gloved and masked. “They worked well,” he said. “They want some at the other facility.”
“I’ll take them,” I declare, picking up a brown box of them.
The surgeon says, “They need to be cut, shorter, and narrower.”
“I’ll do that,” I reply.
I begin walking. Balancing the box, I employ a scalpel and start precisely cutting the pale white catheters. My peer follows, saying, “Let me do something. You can’t carry the box and cut the catheters.”
But I am, continuing as we weave our way through crowds.
“The catheters are bleeding,” the other tech says.
I nod. “That’s normal. These are partly organic. That’s why they work.”
End dreams.
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Michael Seidel, writer 