윤

I’ve been tracking my sleep with the app religiously for the month now, and while I got the impression it had a pretty good handle on my REM, last night’s series doesn’t seem properly reflected in the breakdown. I could’ve sworn I returned at least thrice to the same class or group of people after waking, the first in such an agitated state, alas, with no recollection of its cause, that I was certain my heartrate would have spiked. And perhaps it’s only more evidence of the time dilation that occurs in dreams, but my last outing, where I fearlessly ascended a wall by hand-screwed bolts (a premonition of or motivation for finally assembling my “걸쳐 culture” rack), definitely felt longer than the three minutes recorded.

I could’ve sworn my welcome lurid dream happened after waking at three, though that would mean it awkwardly segued into my later holiday-themed one in an office, it was dark, later in the evening, and as we all headed for the exit, our bubbly Kelly Kapoor became decorated with firefly-like lights slowly falling from above. Everyone cheered as they received their own shower of special effects—me, however, mine was but a trickle in comparison to the others, and I thought maybe that was because I remained preoccupied with the stupid job and didn’t share in their wonder, their laughter, nor embody the same joyous spirit that flourishes in the human heart and connects us all. I probably should have, considering I had finally gotten some earlier.

Luckily the 6-year-old X is still compatible with the newer watch to track yet more information from my heartrate, whose accuracy I can really only gauge from recognition of my dreaming state immediately upon waking. Earlier this morning we were on a plane (just having completed our Spring Break trip), when I noticed, from a view up front and not through a tiny window above the wing, that it was flying far too low and would need quite the pull to avoid the oncoming buildings. Instead, however, the captain made the audacious decision to land with no nearby airport, careening first through a chain-link fence, of which I knew lesser vehicles were capable, but the brick wall that followed, that left only our cabin intact. Apparently there was a medical emergency onboard that prioritized this reckless act above the safety of all the passengers, though one Black woman with a cancer-stricken daughter didn’t think so. Don’t remember much of anything from my return to REM sleep later except that a news broadcast referenced the crash.

There’s still some surprising me, after all; I shat all over the first two seasons of Picard, their unwelcome new characters, nonsensical plotlines, and worst to me, the submission to popular dystopianism—turns out all they really needed to do was bring everyone back, a few of their kids and some familiar guest cameos. …And fuck me, that reunion on the bridge of the D was worth it all, as if they wrote the entire season around it, to hell with the previous ones or rational in-universe explanations. Never mind the lighting, it was the carpet all along! Reminded me of how I’d see Star Blazers in TNG, e.g., Wolf 359 to the Earth Defense Force’s last stand against the Comet Empire; this is like their Yamato.