Dream Clinic
by
Arohi Purnaye
Get your sleep shot today!
Shoo away the nightmares, dreams-of-longing, ghosts-under-beds,
and every other worry of the night!
Book an appointment with our oneirologist-in-residence and
uncover the hidden workings of your mind
The flier outside the clinic is neon blue. So are the 1,548 others across campus. Nightmares, or ‘intellectually instigating dreams’, have spread like the plague since the curriculum change. The campus is infiltrated by an Education Ministry-authorized team of oneirologists and some unauthorized philosophers setting up dream clinics.
The moment I step in, the smell of strawberries and cinnamon hits me like a smack on the face. My mind feels fuzzy, blinded by the bright yellow sofas, the “Avant-garde Mural of Dreams” by one Rufus Murray, and the equally tacky neon blue t-shirts the clinic staff wear.
While I wait my turn, a professor with glasses that magnify her eyes stares at me. Beside her, the print shop guy with the large belly snores off-rhythm. There’s a teary-eyed girl with humongous shoes. I get called in before them and am led by the overly energetic receptionist through a pink corridor.
“Sit. This is an electroencephalographic spectral activity test,” says a lady the moment the door shuts. She has beaded braids, a sunflower-shaped name tag, and a wide grin. Beside her sits a man with a snow-white beard and beige robes who looks like he’s living in the wrong century.
“Ouch!” Something sharp pricks my neck when I sit. She slaps a Band-Aid on me without a blink. The screen next to her whirrs to life with a scan of my brain and fluctuating graphs.
“We’re done with your shot. Close your eyes and tell us what you see.”
I try to get comfortable in my seat. The dreams hit instantly. “An ocean, waves. Footprints in the sand. The sky is too bright. I’m running; there’s a seagull chasing me. Wait, how am I in REM sleep already? How am I talking? Make it stop!”
“Mmmmhmmm. Keep going.”
I panic.
“I’m on a cliff with friends, and we jump? No, we’re flying. We… transform into chickens. There’s that girl with too long hair. We’re on a rollercoaster in a minefield. There’s ash in my ears.”
“Interesting, don’t stop.”
“We’re inside an old car, dusty from ash. I get out; the seagull chases me again. I slip. I’m falling!” My eyes open. Breathing is tough.
“Slow theta frequency, the EEG kept altering. Interesting,” the lady exclaims, pointing to her screen.
“It’s merely an intermediary level manifestation of the ego!” The man suddenly states. “A restricted consciousness.”
“Keep your doctrines to yourself. His soul is not struggling for liberation; his mind simply entered the dream state directly,” she pushes a notepad and pencil in my hands.
Before I can make sense of what is happening, she says, “Write down alternate endings to these nightmares. You have a fear of failure for sure. What are you afraid of, darling? Think about it. And these pills will control your brain wave alterations and steer you away from the 2-5 Hz range. Tell me if it works; it’s a beta stage product.”
I stare at her. In a bout of sudden activity, the man points at my notepad, stealing all my attention.
“Ignore that! I prescribe you chestnuts of the sort squirrels run after. Crush them and drink them with milk and a sprinkle of finely chopped grass. You’re afraid you’ll chicken out in front of your crush. The drink will distract you–believe me, she was never going to say yes.
“Regarding the rollercoasters, ashy cars, and the falling, I recommend gazing at the moon and then a flame for 20 minutes daily. You aim too high for yourself and then lose confidence. At least, you’ll get the dream job out of your head. It’s truly a minefield, the job market. As for the seagulls, pinch your nose and stop breathing every 10 seconds until you start sweating. Seagulls only steal self-confidence and cause insomnia,” he pauses to give a loud humph of distaste. I must’ve touched a nerve, but he revives immediately, “If they smell sweat, they’ll leave you alone, and sleep will come running to embrace you!”
He finally stops.
“How did you–”
“All part of the gift of understanding the divine.”
“But! I never entered NREM sleep. How was I still talking? Should I really just forget about her–”
“I already told you, yes. Good god, the seagull was almost chasing you away from everything in that silly dreamland of yours!”
The woman finally interjects, “It is all placebo! He is merely trying to make you believe you have a solution–”
“I’m telling him to let go of his mortal desires so his mind can finally enjoy the momentary freedom from body and ego that the dreamless state offers. A reprieve for the soul of sorts,” he states firmly.
I stare at the pills and the scribbles I’ve made on my paper. I can barely read anything. My mind is still fuzzy. The two keep staring at me as though frozen in time.
“So what did this test tell you?” I ask.
“It affirms our current hypothesis. Classes on brain sciences and consciousness affect your brain frequencies, influencing your memories and dreams, but why only nightmares, we are yet to conclude,” the oneirologist answers robotically.
“It only shows that this study has activated your desires, causing your mind to keep replaying them in your dreams in hopes of a solution. Detachment is the only way out,” the philosopher adds.
I stare at them both, and they stare back.
“Thank you?”
“Mmmmhmmm. You have your true solution. Choose wisely.”
The doctor gives a wide smile and nods. I decide it is her polite way of shooing away patients.
I leave almost in a trance. Outside, the fresh air brings my senses back to life. A clinician stands with a clipboard. He ticks off my name and points me to the elevators.
“Am I dreaming?” I ask.
“How would I know?”
Shoo away the nightmares, dreams-of-longing, ghosts-under-beds,
and every other worry of the night!
Book an appointment with our oneirologist-in-residence and
uncover the hidden workings of your mind
The flier outside the clinic is neon blue. So are the 1,548 others across campus. Nightmares, or ‘intellectually instigating dreams’, have spread like the plague since the curriculum change. The campus is infiltrated by an Education Ministry-authorized team of oneirologists and some unauthorized philosophers setting up dream clinics.
The moment I step in, the smell of strawberries and cinnamon hits me like a smack on the face. My mind feels fuzzy, blinded by the bright yellow sofas, the “Avant-garde Mural of Dreams” by one Rufus Murray, and the equally tacky neon blue t-shirts the clinic staff wear.
While I wait my turn, a professor with glasses that magnify her eyes stares at me. Beside her, the print shop guy with the large belly snores off-rhythm. There’s a teary-eyed girl with humongous shoes. I get called in before them and am led by the overly energetic receptionist through a pink corridor.
“Sit. This is an electroencephalographic spectral activity test,” says a lady the moment the door shuts. She has beaded braids, a sunflower-shaped name tag, and a wide grin. Beside her sits a man with a snow-white beard and beige robes who looks like he’s living in the wrong century.
“Ouch!” Something sharp pricks my neck when I sit. She slaps a Band-Aid on me without a blink. The screen next to her whirrs to life with a scan of my brain and fluctuating graphs.
“We’re done with your shot. Close your eyes and tell us what you see.”
I try to get comfortable in my seat. The dreams hit instantly. “An ocean, waves. Footprints in the sand. The sky is too bright. I’m running; there’s a seagull chasing me. Wait, how am I in REM sleep already? How am I talking? Make it stop!”
“Mmmmhmmm. Keep going.”
I panic.
“I’m on a cliff with friends, and we jump? No, we’re flying. We… transform into chickens. There’s that girl with too long hair. We’re on a rollercoaster in a minefield. There’s ash in my ears.”
“Interesting, don’t stop.”
“We’re inside an old car, dusty from ash. I get out; the seagull chases me again. I slip. I’m falling!” My eyes open. Breathing is tough.
“Slow theta frequency, the EEG kept altering. Interesting,” the lady exclaims, pointing to her screen.
“It’s merely an intermediary level manifestation of the ego!” The man suddenly states. “A restricted consciousness.”
“Keep your doctrines to yourself. His soul is not struggling for liberation; his mind simply entered the dream state directly,” she pushes a notepad and pencil in my hands.
Before I can make sense of what is happening, she says, “Write down alternate endings to these nightmares. You have a fear of failure for sure. What are you afraid of, darling? Think about it. And these pills will control your brain wave alterations and steer you away from the 2-5 Hz range. Tell me if it works; it’s a beta stage product.”
I stare at her. In a bout of sudden activity, the man points at my notepad, stealing all my attention.
“Ignore that! I prescribe you chestnuts of the sort squirrels run after. Crush them and drink them with milk and a sprinkle of finely chopped grass. You’re afraid you’ll chicken out in front of your crush. The drink will distract you–believe me, she was never going to say yes.
“Regarding the rollercoasters, ashy cars, and the falling, I recommend gazing at the moon and then a flame for 20 minutes daily. You aim too high for yourself and then lose confidence. At least, you’ll get the dream job out of your head. It’s truly a minefield, the job market. As for the seagulls, pinch your nose and stop breathing every 10 seconds until you start sweating. Seagulls only steal self-confidence and cause insomnia,” he pauses to give a loud humph of distaste. I must’ve touched a nerve, but he revives immediately, “If they smell sweat, they’ll leave you alone, and sleep will come running to embrace you!”
He finally stops.
“How did you–”
“All part of the gift of understanding the divine.”
“But! I never entered NREM sleep. How was I still talking? Should I really just forget about her–”
“I already told you, yes. Good god, the seagull was almost chasing you away from everything in that silly dreamland of yours!”
The woman finally interjects, “It is all placebo! He is merely trying to make you believe you have a solution–”
“I’m telling him to let go of his mortal desires so his mind can finally enjoy the momentary freedom from body and ego that the dreamless state offers. A reprieve for the soul of sorts,” he states firmly.
I stare at the pills and the scribbles I’ve made on my paper. I can barely read anything. My mind is still fuzzy. The two keep staring at me as though frozen in time.
“So what did this test tell you?” I ask.
“It affirms our current hypothesis. Classes on brain sciences and consciousness affect your brain frequencies, influencing your memories and dreams, but why only nightmares, we are yet to conclude,” the oneirologist answers robotically.
“It only shows that this study has activated your desires, causing your mind to keep replaying them in your dreams in hopes of a solution. Detachment is the only way out,” the philosopher adds.
I stare at them both, and they stare back.
“Thank you?”
“Mmmmhmmm. You have your true solution. Choose wisely.”
The doctor gives a wide smile and nods. I decide it is her polite way of shooing away patients.
I leave almost in a trance. Outside, the fresh air brings my senses back to life. A clinician stands with a clipboard. He ticks off my name and points me to the elevators.
“Am I dreaming?” I ask.
“How would I know?”