The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [28]
The Most Lucid Place in Society
NORMALS” ALWAYS GET OUT OF BED THE SAME WAY. THEY complain the same way. Get irritated the same way. They curse using the same words. They greet their friends in the same fashion. Give the same answers to the same problems. They express the same humor at home and at work. They have the same reactions to the same circumstances. Give presents on the same days. In short, they have a tiring and predictable routine, which becomes an excellent source of anxiety, anguish, emptiness and boredom.
The system has blocked people’s imagination, corroded their creativity. They rarely give presents on unexpected days. Rarely react differently in tense situations. They are prisoners and don’t know it.
“Normal” parents, when they correct or advise their children, are interrupted midway through. Their children can’t stand hearing the same arguments anymore. They say, “I know that already . . .” And they really do. “Normals” don’t know how to relate their own experiences in order to stimulate the thinking of others.
I was always predictable in my relationship with students, and I only discovered this when I began my journey with the dreamseller. I taught class in a single tone of voice. I criticized and admonished in the same manner. I varied the verbs and nouns, but not the form or the content. The students were fed up with a professor who seemed more like an Egyptian mummy than a human being. They couldn’t stand hearing over and over that they’d be losers in life if they didn’t study.
On the other hand, the dreamseller continually sold the dream of enchantment. How can someone who has nothing on the exterior be so captivating? How can a man without any kind of teaching background so effectively engage our imagination? Walking with him was an invitation to innovative thinking. He saw ordinary situations from different angles. We seemed to travel without a destination or purpose. But deep down, he knew very well what he wanted and where he wanted to go. He was training us to find an unimaginable freedom. Each day was like a garden full of surprises, some of them pleasant, others not.
The next morning, after meditating silently on his own worries, the dreamseller rose, took several deep breaths of the polluted city air from under the bridge and gave thanks to God in an unusual way.
“God, you exist in every space in time. You are infinitely distant and infinitely near, but I know that your eyes are upon me. Let me capture your feelings. Thank you for granting us one more show in this surprising existence.”
Honeymouth, who loved country music, said, “What show are we gonna see, chief?” And he expressed an early-morning enthusiasm that I had seldom seen.
“Show? Each day is a show, each day is a spectacle,” the dreamseller answered, roused with excitement. “Only he who’s mortally wounded by tedium doesn’t discover it. Drama and comedy are in our minds. All we need to do is decide to release them.”
Bartholomew had to be drunk to free himself of his sorrow, to rid himself of his boredom. Now he, as well as Dimas and I, were discovering another world, another stage. The dreamseller set off, and we followed. We climbed a hill, walked three blocks, turned to the right, then walked four more blocks. We exchanged glances, questioning one another, trying to guess where the dreamseller was headed.
After walking for forty minutes, Dimas, who still had not been sufficiently astonished by the dreamseller’s words, asked, “Where are we going?”
The dreamseller stopped, looked him in the eye and said, “Those who sell dreams are like the wind: You hear your voice but don’t know where it comes from or where it’s going. What matters isn’t the route but the journey.”
Dimas understood almost nothing, but he began exercising his rusty mind. And we continued to walk. Fifteen minutes later, the dreamseller stopped in front of a gathering and headed toward it. We slowed our pace, and let him go on about twenty feet ahead of us. Dimas looked at me and said, apprehensively, “This is a funeral home. I