You find yourself wondering about this Brody Williams. Who is he? What’s he like? You click over to the about me page, but doesn’t help. It has meaningless information like he lives in California and that he likes movies. Everyone likes movies! For a moment, you are outraged, but the feeling is gone as soon as it comes. After a few hours, you don’t feel outraged anymore. After a few days, you forget about this little website and its about me page.
Then you have the dream. You’re at a party. Everyone around you is dancing and yelling, but it’s dead silent, like you’re in the middle of a silent film. It seems perfectly normal to you though – dream logic and all that. You find yourself in the corner of the room. Out of the corner of your eye you see a young man, around college age. His hair and beard are untamed, reminiscent of how a lumberjack would look like when he came home from cutting down trees. He’s wearing glasses, the lenses small rounded rectangles with thin silver rims. He’s drinking something from a coffee mug. You crane your neck and see that it’s water. He reaches out, slips something into your hand.
You turn to face him, and suddenly he is no longer a person. He is a mind, a shifting landscape. You look at it, see his imagination – a clear pool of water from which creatures emerge, many of them half-formed, deformed, or formless. Many of them get stuck in the mud on the edge of the pond, but some of them manage to make it to the surrounding forest, evolving as they go. Some of them even combine into one thing, getting bigger and stronger. You see him at the edge of the pond, helping some of the creatures along, while telling others that he might be back to help, just wait and see, and don’t panic.
You see a flock of nagging birds, anxieties, forcing him to do things to placate them, or else continue to suffer their hooked claws and sharp beaks. They spell out words in the sky – not words, sentences – sentences like don’t touch that, it’s dirty and now there’s something on your hands. wash them. they’re dirty. You recognize their strange cry as three letters, repeated over and over again. OCD. OCD. You shutter as you watch him try to shift his focus away from them, to look away for longer than a second. He can’t, but you can.
You see his sense of humor, bright things bubbling up from the depths of his mind, making connections and laughing at them, laughing at everything. Some of what wells up is sent over to another part of his mind, filled away for future use. You follow these things and see his knowledge, stacks of books and videos playing on loop. This part of his mind is extensive, but cluttered. You sense that he knows where everything is, even if it takes a few minutes to find whatever it is he’s looking for.
You see a surprisingly harmless looking spider, weaving sentences and sending them to his hands to write and to his hands to speak. It takes the ideas that the rest of the mind creates and turns them into something polished, usable. Some of what it weaves returns to the stores of memory, words unspoken and unwritten, perhaps to be used later, perhaps to be slowly unraveled back into their base components.
Suddenly, you are looking at him again the way you see everyone else. The room is now empty except for the two of you. He smiles at you, and you find yourself drifting away. You wake up and look down at your hand. You’re holding a scrap of paper, with ALLEGEDINSOMNIA.COM written on it. It looks familiar to you. You rush over to your computer and find yourself on this website. You realize that you now know a little something about me.