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I think, maybe, dreaming and remembering are more alike than the Doctor wants to believe.

(ix. killer cars or, portrait)

No matter where my eyes eventually rest, whether inside or outside, I am sure to think of you, dear Reader. I am not afraid of my future, as the Doctor seems to be. It is not any operation that frightens me; it is only the chance of losing my dreams.

Reader, we are meant to be true friends, I believe. So maybe I should, before the end, tell you my greatest fear. But I’m guessing it might be your greatest fear as well. Perhaps you, too, have had this nightmare. After all, in this world of eyes, it’s the one memory we share. It’s the only thing I remember from that day we must have met.

I am afraid of automobiles. I know you won’t laugh at my weakness. I tell you my fear because I think that it must describe me better, or at least more accurately, than to tell you my pigment or my worries or my hair. Because, of these, people are all the same color, varying only in shades. Perhaps the only thing that could tell you more is if I revealed to you the quality of my eyes, but that I leave for you to discover.

The fear begins at home, waking up in bed. Each morning, awakened violently by an alarm clock, people decide that there is somewhere to go that is absolutely unique to them. We always seem to find something that we do, something so removed and alone, that we must travel there by ourselves. So, each person gets into his car and drives away to the cylinder worlds. We motor the sky, cramped dangerously inside plastic and steel. Each person wears a determined look on his face, inching forward, and humming softly to himself inside his buzzing automobile.

But where are we going to? Whom are we driving away from? These are killer cars. They are driving us away from each other. I just can’t believe that we can all be going to different places. It can’t be that we all have such different dreams. Really, if we have different places to go, why do we keep passing the same drivers? Why are the highways jammed in every direction?

ix. killer cars or, portrait
ix. killer cars or, portrait
Car crashes are the easiest way to make new friends. And also, to remember that the roads we’re traveling are not so different either.

What surprises me most, though, is that car crashes today have lost all their meaning. It is odd that people always seem to be angry and inconvenienced. After every traffic accident, people look for mistakes and point fingers in blame. I only wish that I could take credit for such a happy event.

Maybe people have forgotten why it all happens. Accidents were invented to meet people, of course. Doesn’t it seem odd that two strangers – so convinced of the uniqueness of their worries, of the singular places that they are driving to – could chance to cross paths? Traffic collisions mean that, for one moment, the morning decision of one person matches that of another. They have both had the same idea of where to go, and have both arrived at the same conclusion.

Car crashes are the easiest way to make new friends. And also, to remember that the roads we’re traveling are not so different either. Our morning dreams keep crossing each other in opportunity. So maybe I’m not really afraid of cars after all, but rather the drivers. Many seem to have lost their way.

I’ll tell you one other thing that should complete my description. Although my body is the same on the outside, inside me something has changed. You might not even recognize me. My head is full with more than just broken rainbows. I’m starting to find feelings in colors again. I’m starting to look again at the world with open eyes. And although I continue forgetting, I continuing remembering, too. I think, maybe, dreaming and remembering are more alike than the Doctor wants to believe.

I’ve been trying my best until now, drawing pictures and putting words together to help me remember. Yet still one thing troubles me. I can’t recall anything more about you, dear Reader, but one fading memory. That day we first met on the side of the road, you got out of your broken car to help me. But for reasons I can’t figure out, you didn’t say hello. And although you never said a word, I remember you had tears in your eyes, just like mine.

So instead of helping me to remember, perhaps all these words I’ve written might still have some use. I want you to take them, a portrait in words to remember me by. I want to be sure that next time you will recognize me. So that, one day, if we chance to meet again on the shoulder of the highway, this time you’ll say to me, "Hello, friend, it’s about time that we woke up with the same dreams."

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