Dearest Rachel –
It’s so weird to think that, only a few years ago, I was regularly waking up at five or so in the morning in order to shower, shave, get myself something for breakfast and get a little reading in before heading off to an actual job at an actual office. You’d think that having to do so on the odd occasion nowadays wouldn’t faze me all that much, since it wasn’t all that long ago that this was such an everyday part of my life.
And yet, here I am; no longer accustomed to having to wake up at such an hour, and making all sorts of adjustments to my regular habits in order to do so, such as dumping myself into bed at barely a quarter after nine. Although, in fairness, it’s not as if I was able to do so organically back then, either, but had to rely on the screech of my alarm clock to get me up.
And it actually worked. I was even awake some ten minutes prior to my alarm going off this morning, which means I can tell you about a couple of scenes from last night’s dreams, without them having been forcibly dissipated by that ungodly noise (can you tell how much I hate my alarm clock? Yes, it does its job, and effectively, too, but that noise! Even when I hear it in a movie or on television, it sets my teeth on edge).
Anyway, you were there, with a wide open smile and enthusiastic wave that was one arm short of being jazz hands. You’d come to pick me up from work, since I had carpooled with Mohinder and DJ to another location, where we’d been training for… something. The smile and wave, while not entirely out of character for you (indeed, I know enough people who would say it was perfectly in character for you), was particularly exaggerated in order to get my attention, because I had called my dad to come get me. Yes, it’s gotten to the point where even my dream self has come to accept that you’re no longer here and available to rely on. And yet, there you were. Guess it serves me right for my lack of faith.
We did need to get back to the office itself, so that I could pick up a few things that I’d left there, before heading home, or wherever it was we were going next. I think my mind was still grounded on the fact that I need to bring my computer up with me to camp this morning, when the group of us head up there from church in order to determine the upcoming year’s budget.
Of course, we never did get back home, nor did we head for camp. The scene completely dissolved, and the next thing I knew, we were officiating a long-distance race, of all things. We were actually following it on some kind of computer screen, with a map of the course that identified each contestant with a little black icon with a red heart in it. Somewhere along the way, the second place runner appeared to lose his ‘heart,’ and we agreed that someone needed to go out there and get it back to him, lest he keep going unaware of it, and end up being disqualified. Since we seemed to be the only ones who were aware of the situation, we left our posts in order to find both the runner and his ‘heart,’ and reunite them before the race was over.
We located the ‘heart’ first, as it’s easier to catch up with a stationary object; it turned out to be his runners’ tag, with his number and name on it, and presumably some sort of health monitor, since we were still able to track his whereabouts further along the course separately. When we did catch up to him, I was shocked to see who I thought was Peter Dinklage – at least, in terms of stature, that’s who he resembled from behind. Of course, when I called ‘his’ name, and he looked around, I realized my mistake; he looked nothing like the actor. For one thing – and I should’ve noticed this from the start – his hair was shockingly ginger, not brown. His eyes weren’t sunken back into his face, either. Really, he looked more like a cross between Dinklage and Ed Sheeran, if either of those names mean anything to you. Still, it struck me as impressive that this fellow would be leading nearly the entire field of… conventionally-sized runners.
Thanks to his size, he also proved reasonably easy to restrain – at least, at first – while you pinned his identification monitor back onto him. Once other runners started to pass us, however, he began to object vociferously, and struggled to escape our grasp. Frankly, we could have let him go so much sooner if he hadn’t done so. As it was, however, he caught up with the pack, and still managed to finish third.
Even as he stood on the podium receiving his award, he continued to complain about our ‘interference.’ We must not have explained to him – or if we did, it hadn’t sunk in – that if we hadn’t stopped him, it wouldn’t have mattered where in the race he finished; he would have been disqualified regardless, at which point he would have really had something to complain about. Not that it would have done any good; rules are rules and all that.
Anyway, I suppose I ought to thank you for your help getting through both of those scenes; I couldn’t have made it through either of them without you. But for now, I need to grab myself some breakfast, and get going.
I’ll talk to you later, honey. Until then, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 