Dreaming Trees

“For your next assignment, write a story based on your dreams,” Belle said, frantically plodding from one corner of the room to another, pointing at the projector screen. “And if you get stuck, remember what I’ve written here - originality is dead!” With that, she dismissed the class. As I was packing my stuff amidst the cacophony of clanking chairs and tables, I thought a bit more about what Belle had said.

Belle had asked us to write about our dreams, and I hadn’t dreamt in five months. I don’t know why I stopped dreaming. It’s not like I don’t remember my dreams; I know I don’t dream because I do remember the nothingness from my sleep. My dreams feel like a black canvas itching to be showered with the paint of imagination. I have no idea where to find the brush or even the paint. Everyone tells me that a writer – a good one – is someone who can weave the chaos of dreams into the magic of stories. What does it say about me as a writer when all I dream of is a black canvas?

“What are you going to write about?” Zeb asked, suddenly appearing next to me like a djinn. He threw his hands around my shoulders as we walked out of the classroom. His oversized pink sweater smothered me in the smell of pine trees. If one wasn’t paying attention, it would definitely appear that Zeb’s monstrously husky body had a loggerhead tucked under his arm.

I slowly corked my head from under his arm and gaspingly replied, “I have no idea. I will probably make something up.”

“You still don’t dream?” he asked, letting go of me. He was now towering over me, scratching the little stubble under his chin. He exhaled, drowning me in his coffee breath. He clutched my shoulders and gently nudged me to the exit door. As the doors propped open and the evening sunlight dashed in to rub off his dark skin, I found myself ogling into his hazel eyes like a frog gawking at a pond lily.

“Everyone has dreams!” Zeb said as we entered the open courtyard outside the lecture hall. After two hours of relentless lectures about haikus and limericks, it felt good to be out in the open. I love writing, but I despise learning to write. It seems futile to restrict the boundless possibilities of writing to forms and techniques and all kinds of jargon. The only rule to writing is that it should speak to the audience and the writer.

The evening dew was settling down on the sharp blades of grass that scraped against the outsides of my blue sweatpants. The doors to the lecture hall behind us were still sporadically squeaking open and shut, but they were overwhelmed by the chirp of the black birds circling the sky above us. They were really beautiful.

Zeb and I stood motionless in the courtyard, holding hands. While his eyes wandered off to bask in the glory of the setting sun, I was watching the giant tree in the centre of the courtyard. Its bark was so intricately detailed, like human palms. I remember when I was young, I used to play a game with my friends where the lines on our palms directly correlated to our future. In other words, deciphering the lines on our palms was an exercise in poor man’s astrology. I wondered if trees did that, too, you know? I wondered if trees wrapped themselves by roots around each other to read how many lines they had on their barks.

“Do you think trees dream?” I finally said and watched Zeb look at me quizzically. I realized he had lost track of our conversation, so I ran him up to it. “You asked if everyone has dreams, so I wonder if trees dream,” I said.

What do trees dream of? Do they dream of the wind whispering through the thick sheet of leaves? Of leaves gently rustling in the presence of birds? Is it the warmth of sunlight dancing on their oaky bodies? Or, perhaps trees are like me, and they don’t dream at all.

“Probably, but who cares about what trees dream of? The next thing you’ll ask me is if loaves of bread dream?” Zeb said, chuckling.

“But trees live, and so they should dream. I would like to know what they dream of,” I said. Zeb’s face grew serious. I loved it when it did that because it was probably one of the rarest things in the world to watch Zeb be serious. In that moment, he had the air of a wizard. His composure tightened as he spread his hands and popped his head back, gazing at the evening star. He sternly said, “What if trees dream for you?” His finger now pointed at me, and his face leaned in closer. “What if the trees weave tales of unseen worlds while you lie in a dreamless slumber?”

“For me?” I said, gulping. All I could think about was his face and how beautiful the mole above his right eyebrow was. And then, he broke into a loud guffaw, “Sorry, just pulling your leg.” I rolled my eyes and punched him on his chest as we walked back to our dorm hand-in-hand. We didn’t say a word while going back, and I knew that even though Zeb had seemingly dismissed my question, he, too, was thinking about it. We were both interested in knowing if trees could dream.

I spent the next week struggling to find a topic to write about. The best topic I could come up with was about an electron falling in love with a proton, much to the dismay of the neutron. It would be a fiery tale of passion and love and betrayal. I wanted to call it ‘The Fundamental Love’. Zeb encouraged me to write about it, but the more I thought about this story, the more I realized there was nothing to write about. I can write about passion and betrayal (probably), but love? What even is love? I mean, I do love people. I love Zeb. But it’s not the kind of love they show in movies or the ones you see etched in the fragments of every sad poem. I don’t see myself spending my entire life with someone. That kind of passionate love seems baseless and meaningless. If I love my notebook, I don’t go about wanting to marry it, do I? Why should it be different for a person? So, I decided to abandon ‘The Fundamental Love’.

“A good writer can write about stuff they don’t experience or even feel,” Zeb had said when I told him about not wanting to write ‘The Fundamental Love’. We had been lying on his bed, having just finished our most recent movie marathon. “Do you think Shakespeare murdered his uncle to write about Hamlet?” Zeb had added.

“Who knows?” I'd shrugged, dismissing him. “Does a good writer really write about stuff they don’t experience? Maybe Shakespeare did feel like murdering his uncle, and then he wrote about it. Even the most absurd stories are written from personal experience and feelings.”

“What about fantasy? Or sci-fi?” Zeb had said, craning his neck to look at me.

“Sure, the approach to telling an experience could be different or unique. One could mask the emotion of something as simple as riding a bicycle the first time to an absurdist sci-fi tale about riding a space wagon.”

“You should write about that, then.”

“Space wagons? I don’t remember how I felt when I first rode my bicycle, so maybe not?” I sighed. “If there are people…who can write things without ever experiencing it… that’s special! I envy them.”

“You’re still thinking about trees dreaming?” Zeb had drawled, changing the subject.

“I guess…how can you not be curious?” I had said, but his eyes were already twitching, early signs of him being sleepy. So, I just caressed his forehead and watched him doze off.

Things took a turn two days after I abandoned ‘The Fundamental Love’, when Zeb suggested that I actually visit a forest. “If you really care about dreams so much, and trees too, you should go to a forest,” he had said. A simple suggestion, but brilliant. That is exactly what I did the next morning. I couldn’t find any trekking pants, so I just wore my teal yoga trackpants with cute magical orbs drawn all over them. I grabbed my brown hiking shoes and made sure that I wore my favourite navy blue hoodie. I only wore them on special occasions. By nine, I found myself at the beginnings of the Postman Rainforest Trail on the North side of my campus.

It dawned upon me that this was my first time near a forest. The mist crept hauntingly, making its way through the forest floor like a giant serpent. The trees were all buzzing like sleeping giants, their leaves dropping and swirling mid-air like snowflakes after a snowstorm. How gloriously they all stood next to each other as if engaged in a silent conversation in a language no one else understood.

As I walked deeper into the trail, their numbers only grew stronger. When no one was around, I decided to touch the bark of one of the trees. It was exactly like the one from the open courtyard, and though I do not know the type of tree it was, I could describe how it felt to touch it. Touching the rough bark of that tree was like meeting a wise, old friend you’d lost touch with. It felt like I was playing the game of palm-pretend-astrology all over again. It felt like each cut on the branch of this tree was a cut on my friend’s palm, and as I traced my fingers along them, I could sense the years of adventure this tree had gone through to earn that cut. My hands clutched the pocket notebook shoved deep into my pockets, and with each stroke of the tree’s cut, I felt my hands throbbing with the desire to write tales about nymphs, soldiers, and everyone that had trudged past this very tree. How many stories had this tree borne witness to?

I closed my eyes, whispering, “Tell me what you dream of?” For a moment, nothing happened, and I cursed myself. What was I thinking? Then, all of a sudden, the blackness covering my eyes quavered with the gentle strokes of red. Then, blue danced into the frame. Green came along like a tsunami. The world caved in as a verdant landscape showering with dazzling rainbows overhauled the blackness before my eyes. I watched tiny dots ripple through the canvas. At first, they were watery. Then, like clay, they were moulded into shapes that coalesced into a single form. It took me a while to realize it was a human.

“Hello,” I said in this world of rainbows.

“Hello,” the figure echoed back in a familiar voice.

It was then that I realized that the figure was me. My eyes fluttered open as I watched the tree with panic-stricken confusion. Hearing the trees rustle once more as a wild gush of wind raced by, I learnt that trees do dream. Zeb was right. They dream of the dreamless; they dream for the dreamless. And in their dreams are stories waiting to be written.