Symptoms of Cretinism

(photo by Zer Cabatuan) In the dream, the old man tells me, “Come in. Come in boy. The show’s just beginning.” And I do. The theatre is filled with people, young and old – one child is holding a cotton candy cone in her hand, laughing, giggling; a thirty-something woman sits near the aisle, sobbing; I see a couple kissing in a corner. At first I don’t get it. The screen is showing nothing but static. When I return to the man outside, he’s smiling. “Don’t like what’s on?” I say there’s nothing on, but the smile doesn’t fade, and he nods knowingly. “Ah,” he says, “So we have a realist, eh?” He seems amused and surprised. “Don’t get much of your kind here. The last one to say she was one ended up staying, after all. I think it was a love story, for her. Figures. So just static for you? Nothing? Not even a shadow or something blurred and jagged in the background?” “No,” I answer. “So it’s back to the real world in the morning, yes? Same as always?” Asks the old man, who has, from somewher...