Time for the Living

As I opened the door and walked inside, I realized that I’d been in this same space the night before, in a dream. It was lunchtime, and for what felt like the first time in years, I was about to order takeout from a Thai restaurant a few blocks from home. Considering that I worked at home, I wondered why I didn’t walk through this door more often. The restaurant was mine in the dream. I’d inherited it. It was dark in here in the dream, I was alone, and I glanced at several dying plants near the door. Why hadn’t I noticed before that they were dying? We would open soon. Customers couldn’t see dying plants in my restaurant. This was the first time I’d thought of it as mine. I wanted to avoid facing the reality that the plants had been here ever since I’d become owner. The dreamer in me wanted to know why I hadn’t watered them. Dream reality reminded me that I had to solve the problem now. It was time for the living. I wasn’t dying, or if I was, I wanted to be alive as possible during the time I had left. In reality, I was ordering my lunch and another afternoon was ahead of me.

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