Cynetia/Literature/The Dream

The Dream is a short story written by James Hillarity in 1935.
== Story ==
=== Anglese (Original) ===
It stood up, a figure subjective to different human eyes. After a sudden blur, a blur that’s still somewhat remaining, it found itself in a world that could almost exist in reality, but would make no sense if it did. Within was a mysterious, grand building, a building that was said to be a university, at least according to the mind. But the building looked nothing like a typical university. There were thin red towers on a hill in the back, there were white slabs and a white tower with a purple spiral beside it, and everything was dark. The time was day, at least according to the mind, but the gray clouds almost made a new night sky. The clouds smoked and further wisps came down from the sky.
Down beneath the hill was a town, a town that was bleak and muddy, but well lit in the dark landscape. It heavily contrasted in comparison to the alleged university on the hill. 
The figure found itself without control, but without realizing this. Inside, its mind was speaking, but it was almost a different mind, a mind that was still its own but not the same one that makes conscious decisions in the real world.  It was told by the mind to go towards what was supposedly a university. It trudged up the hill in very short time, through almost a blur.
Suddenly, it was facing the white slab that found itself part of what may or may not be the university. The disconnected mind told it to go inside the white slab through the vanishing doors. Inside was a periodic table, but not quite the correct elements. The only elements it could make out were “Hydrogen… Berylium… Nitrogen… ‘Diomatine’… Oxygen… ‘Kindport’… and ‘Dysphorium’...” It stared at two test tubes. One with a clear liquid and one with a yellow liquid. It was told one of them was supposedly oxygen and the other ‘laturylium’. A small paper slip went beside it. The slip read, in messy handwriting, “You’re done for the day.”
The figure then walked out of the white slab and went towards a sudden new building. It was an extravagant, geometric, brick building that may as well exist in real life. It may as well have seen the building in a distant memory.
It went through the vanishing doors. Inside, the building was much darker than it was outside, mostly. There was a well lit front desk, a shop that only sold plastic heads modeled after the figure, and a very dark, wide tunnel with curved corners that descended into darkness. The tunnel held red and black stripes horizontally and there were minimal stairs. It decided to walk down the stairs. 
As the figure took its first step, an old lady peered from the front desk and said “Good afternoon.” 
It was not afternoon, at least according to the mind.
The figure continued walking down the steps of concrete that seemed to go on forever. In short time, in almost a blur, the steps were almost over, but the tunnel kept slanting slightly downward. A white slab of wood with bloody lettering hung above the tunnel and read “Good evening.”
It was not evening, at least according to the mind.
No one was down there. There, no one stood with the figure but darkness. Darkness was its friend. The tunnel remained loyal to the darkness and everything ahead remained invisible, but not where the figure was standing. 
Suddenly, a new figure appeared that had looked just like it. The new figure approached the centered figure with a knife and said “Good morning.”
It was not morning, at least according to the mind.
To escape the situation, its near death, the figure of focus knew it just had to wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
And so it went. The figure had woken up, and there was a window beside its bed looking outdoors. The mind told the figure it was daytime, but the gray clouds were dark enough to create a new night sky. The walls on its separated bedroom fell over and it was on a hill, overlooking a very colorful town, which contrasted the muddy industrial brick building behind it. The mind told the figure the industrial building was a retirement home.
Suddenly, the clouds vanished in the blink of an eye, and the sky was mostly white with small shreds of pink, blue, and yellow. The sky was stuttering and the town was caving in. The hill was rolling away and the figure rolled back, directly into the supposed retirement home. The intense white light was not escaping through the windows, despite its power. 
Despite the muddy, industrial setting of the outside of the supposed retirement home, the inside looked reminiscent of a modern office building. A cheery young woman with a smile whiter than the light outside was at the front desk, and a banner with the name of the retirement home, Sunny Hills, read above the desk in large letters, “Good afternoon!”
The mind told the figure it was not afternoon.
The cheery young woman greeted the figure into the retirement home by waving her hand rapidly. “158,” she said, referring to its room number. The figure asked itself why it needed a room number in a retirement home. It asked itself why it was treated more similarly to a motel than a retirement home. The only clue was the ominous sight of a wheelchair escorting an old man who became nothing but a sack of skin. He was covered in nothing but a muddy white cloth. He had no eyes, no teeth, nothing.
The figure walked past the sight and into a hallway that seemed to go on for eternity. Luckily, Room 158 was closeby. The figure opened the door. The room was murky and had several flies and mosquitos circling the area. The bed was barely a bed, more a husk of a mattress doused in blood, urine, and other repulsive fluids. Inside was a square basket where the figure was supposed to throw waste. The mind told the figure to open the wastebin. Inside the wastebin was a large shaft leading into endless darkness. The mind told the figure to fall into the shaft. 
Unaffected by the fall through a thin pit of concrete walls, the figure finally descended towards the bottom in almost a blur. A mangled piece of cardboard with scraggly pencil writing read “Good evening.”
The mind told the figure it was not evening.
Darkness again surrounded all sides of the figure. The room almost felt cloudy, nearly as cloudy as the skies prior to emitting a blinding white light. But the room was not cloudy. Through the darkness, a new figure emerged, the cheery woman who greeted the figure of focus into the supposed retirement home. She brandished a knife with her tongue and said “Good morning.”
The mind told the figure it was not morning.
To escape the situation, the near-death, the figure of course just had to wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
The figure woke up in its bed. The figure looked beside it. There was no window. It then opened the door and looked around. The bedroom was certainly not disconnected either. Maybe this was the figure’s true home. The figure looked outside the window in its kitchen and saw a thick layer of clouds. The mind stated the time was day, but the clouds were so dense it almost created a new night sky. The mind urged the figure to get in its car. It sat in the driver’s seat with a portable radio on the passenger’s seat. The radio played a song by The Troubles, its favorite song, “Good Afternoon.”
The mind stated it was not afternoon.
The figure drove through rural, forested roads. The climate became drier and it approached a quaint log cabin. It was mostly muddy and murky, but the roof was a vibrant red and purple. The figure opened the door and wiped its shoes on the rug below, hanging them on a rack. It turned to the right where there was an ornate, golden mirror and said “Good evening.”
The mind stated it was not evening.
Confusion sank in. Its very mouth, its very words stated it was evening, but the mind disagreed.
The mind stated it was not evening.
The figure became frustrated with itself.
The mind stated it was not evening.
The figure wondered why the mind continued, persisted, insisted on stating it was not evening when it was unclear.
The mind stated it was not evening.
The figure gave up on fighting with itself. It looked for its own bedroom, and once the bedroom was found, it decided to rest on the clean, organized bed. As soon as the figure rest its eyes, a vision met it of the other figure that looked just like the figure of focus preparing to plunge a knife into it. The figure opened its eyes and closed them again, and a vision met it of the cheery woman preparing to drive a knife into it. The figure opened its eyes and a shadow appeared with a knife in front of it. “Good morning.”
The mind stated it was not morning.
To escape the new situation, the recurring near-death, the figure knew it just had to wake up. Wake up. Wake up.
But it could not wake up. Waking up, the pure escape, didn’t work. Just waking up had finally failed. The figure then prepared to guide a knife into it.
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