Rembrandt Slept Here

    “I want you to go to sleep.” I listen and attempt to understand their demand, but no matter how many times I ask, why, I receive no answer. 

    I understand. I’ve felt like not answering questions at times myself. There is something about giving into power you cannot control, that is disturbing. Control is all we have to remind us of who we are. Control anchors us in the reality that surrounds us. Being here, surrounded by so many who have lost that control and now float through a dystopian environment where they can’t recognize themselves, is unsettling.

    Sleep gives us the power to abandon reality. When one has given up on reality the thought of finding it is frightening. Once you are free from the prison that has kept you from being who you believe yourself to be, you do not of your own accord wish to return. It is the fear of reality that has driven you to the place you now reside, have become comfortable with, and do not desire to return to the uncertainty it holds.

    Rembrandt was one of us. Of all those who feared their dreams, he was the only one who’d discuss them with me. I have learned to dismiss my dreams as a synopsis of electrical charges destined to influence my waking hours. I have learned to dismiss the affects, by placing them in perspective. We are at war constantly with who we are, and who we want to be. We must remain vigilant or surrender to the unthinkable.   

    Dreams are powerful because they have the ability to strain the superfluous interjection of supposition into a reality, that is not in our best interests. We are here because of the suppositions that describe who we are, were, and who they wish us to become. The goal is to have us re-enter a previous status that can be interpreted objectively. The problem arises when the reality offered is not acceptable. We have experienced that reality previously, and have abandoned it in favor of an altered reality that better serves our needs.

    Dreams interfere with our ability to segregate their imposing reality from our own. What is being suggested is that we, for example, all believe in the same God, way of life, similar principles; they propose we all become homogenized duplicates of themselves, and each other.

    I have spoken with Rembrandt extensively on the subject, and we have determined that sleep has become their modus operandi of change, ours. 

    Sleep deprivation has been used as a means to seduce information from people. Lack of sleep is claimed to alter perception, allowing information to be garnered from uncooperative participants. The accuracy of information obtained is considered questionable as it has been obtained under duress, but they persist. 

    Rembrandt and I agree that what they have determined as questionable is the altered reality created by dreams, and is presented to those stressed, as a way of ridding themselves of the subjective influence of other realities induced by sleep.

    Rembrandt claims that sleep deprivation triggers a psychosis that allows the dreams or subjective infusions to escape, but at a price. Although what is left after the escape no longer has the influence it once had, it remains the impetus for future invasions of the doubt in reality, and it contributes to the skepticism that erodes the necessity to keep from sleeping. The price they insist is reality, thiers.

    Rembrandt states, and rightfully so, that those who prescribe sleep, do so because they are incapable of relating to the understanding obtained from rejecting the implications of dreams and refusal of sleep. Those in charge have been reduced to using chemical weapons in their effort to maintain the stability claimed by reality, and sustained and improved upon by sleep. 

    Pills have become the weapon of choice. We are forced to abandon our principles. We have no choice as we are subjected to a bombardment of narcotics which are designed to steal from us the inability to refuse sleep. 

    Rembrandt in his protest against the regimes tactics refused to sleep for twelve days. He was subjected to injections which he held out against for another several days before succumbing. Others have fought as valiantly, but have been felled by this drug war in far less time. I myself have avoided the injections and forced feeding, by pretense. They believe I concur with their tactics and so leave me alone. 

    I am not immune to their tactics. They have been reduced to putting sedatives in my food and disguising sleep additives as vitamins. I have managed to date to elude their attempts to co-opt my dedication to the cause, by offerings to the night custodial staff, namely George. He has a voracious appetite and consumes everything offered. There are few if any staff during the evening hours so George’s sleep is uninterrupted. So far no one is the wiser, but I can’t help but wonder how long it will take them to figure out why George’s family has begun to complain, they have observed he no longer requires sleep.

     Rembrandt has informed me he plans to escape this torture. He has devised a plan to turn the tables on our captors. He has advised me to remain alert and be ready at all times. It is difficult as I believe they have doctored the water, laced it with sleep drugs. I have reached a state where I am no longer sure if I am awake or dreaming. 

    I have sunken to the place of asking Rembrandt last evening, if he was real or was I just imagining him in my dreams. He just laughed, slipped on a mask that transformed him into someone that resembled George. He did not answer what I assumed a logical question, and only smiled as he slipped out the door wearing George’s uniform and billed cap.

    I no longer have the benefit of Rembrandts council. He has not returned, nor has George. I can only assume he was successful in his escape attempt or he is in that padded room in the basement that no one is allowed to speak of. I know Rembrandt to be a creative type; I can only assume he is on his way to Saskatchewan, the place of his birth, according to his therapist. 

    Rembrandt said he would return for me if his escape was successful, but to date he has not appeared. Perhaps he needs time to rest. It is no doubt a long and arduous road when looking for where one began. Who knows, he may have fallen asleep and forgotten all about me. I’ve done that myself.