Morpheus

I am haunted by dreams of people who don't even exist.

Or even if they exist, we have never met.

He was from Paris, dressed impeccably in European cuts and matched colors -- none of the American gung-ho sloppiness. I could discern a hint of Italian in his features, though I have never been a cartographer of the face, possessing no skill in mapping out the ethnic origins of an arch of the nose or curve of the eyes.

When he transferred to my high school, he for some reason was drawn to our side of the quad. A surprise, really, considering how in France, he had been drinking since he was 12 -- he probably would have fit right in with the catty drunkenness of the jocks and cheerleaders. Instead, he became friends with me.

I never understood why. He was too perfect to befriend someone like me. He was loyal, approachable, the kind of person who would always take the time to say hello if he saw you in the hall, rather than cast his eyes downward and avoid eye contact. He became the friend I told everything to, for I never had to worry that my secrets would be spread.

So when I woke up this morning, a feeling of gloom settled in for two reasons. The first is one that everyone has experienced when they awake from a dream that is too good to be true. The second? I realized that I have met this person's physical replica, but the personality inside could not have been any more opposite. My subconscious mind had twisted him into the person I wanted him to be. And that, I think, is even more unhealty than having visions about somebody who is completely and fully a figment of your imagination.