Nicholas Catapano

Issue No. 19 • Spring 2018


“What are your dreams?” You could be asked this question essentially anywhere, by anyone.
It’s a sort-of, somewhat-somehow-someway bothersome question, because it somehow-someway-somewhat isn’t as readily answerable as others, including, but not limited to:
“What did you have for breakfast this morning?”              
“What’s your favorite genre of music?”            
“What’s your major?”          
 (Toasted bagel and cereal; hip-hop; economics)

Somnia? I suppose I’m supposed to have known that by now, someway-somewhat-somehow. And I suppose this supposition supplements existing fears somehow, spurring this sad sap into supplication, not simply for signs of salvation from the statist frenzy of societal stratification, but still for the stoppage of his steady, stringent, surreptitious senescence. How solipsistic! Or is it? An anemic attempt at achieving agelessness: looking for the Fountain of Youth but finding a fountain pen instead.

(“Are you dodging the point?”) (“…”)

Dreams – I think we all understand the magnitude of such a concept, whether or not we admit it. They are a cursed duality. They draw us into the loveliest sleep we’ll ever have and then keep us awake every night until we live them for real. They give us a plan for the future that nobody ever thinks possible – that’s idealism, but more indignant. They give us a kick in the head and a shot in the arm; a spring in our step and a stab to the heart. They lead us to fight. They force us to love. They persist and pester and press and compel the poor punk, a protean, precocious piece of shit, to pay attention not to their present, but to their enduring legacy, yet to be printed. They bring unavoidable heartbreak and hassles and headaches, but none of that really matters because we wouldn’t want to avoid them anyway. We just have to remember to wake up to get there, after all.

So regarding the first question, I’m going to have to sleep on it.