The Land of Dreams
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| Just ilustration |
In this land, dreaming is a luxury.
But that hardly matters for someone like me—a dream scanner. Though I still have my own modest dreams, working as a dream archivist at a private laboratory—a dream research and development institute—has left me feeling far from deprived. For twenty-four hours a day, I stare at my monitor, sorting through emails sent to the company website from across the nation. Dreams flow in ceaselessly, uploaded from household computers. I examine each one, classify them, and assign index codes. In this way, I preserve my own dreams—saving them like precious relics, wouldn’t you say?
Don’t ask me how people here manage to convert their dreams into software. I’m no computer expert. I only know that these dreams are somehow transmitted automatically to our company’s database from personal home devices. Occasionally, I peek into how the data is processed—compressed into chips no larger than a match head and prepared for sale.
Centuries ago, the ancestors of this nation were natural dreamers from birth. But there came a dark era when a brutal regime robbed them of their intellect and soul. Not a shred of wisdom remained—barely enough wit to conjure a single line of vision. They bled the minds and spirits of the people dry, like cows milked to the bone—leaving behind nothing but parched brains and hollow hearts.
Today, anyone in this country who still dreams is a millionaire. The government guards them more fiercely than state secrets. For it is only through dreaming that the factories in our city still smoke and hum.
But for the masses—the poor and forgotten—life is barren. They possess nothing. To breathe, they often resort to pirating dreams—like bootlegging tapes. Some forage for dream residue in the waste dumps of factories, refining the dust into counterfeit chips using cracked software. Few dare to take such risks now. Implanted in the brain, these fake dreams bring only migraines and madness. Only those on death’s doorstep even consider black market dreams—produced by hackers and sold in shadowy alleys. Like pirated CDs on sidewalk stalls, these chips ravage the mind, the body—the media player of the soul. A sound body and spirit demand authentic dreams, preferably with a one-year factory warranty. So say the doctors of Dreamland.
In this country, dreams are indeed a luxury. And I—still a lonely dream scanner and archivist—have little beyond my computer, a stream of emails, and a faded photograph of my lover pinned to the wall. Perhaps this is what it means to live here—a place nearly void of choice. A land where everything is cloaked in grey: the sky, the streets, the ruins. Smoke from the factories clouds the sun, which, they say, only appears once every five years—when temperatures miraculously rise to 25 degrees Celsius.
What chills me most, though, is the number of bandits in this freezing place. According to a food stall owner near my office, nearly half the land beyond the city gates is ruled by raiders, thieves, and highwaymen. I rarely dare walk more than five hundred meters from my office or apartment—which sits at the heart of Dreamland. Travelers who venture unguarded never return whole—just names added to the registry of the lost. When I first arrived a year ago, I was escorted from the airport like a mayor under threat.
“But don’t worry too much,” said the food seller. “They only steal dreams.”
At first, I didn’t understand how a dream could be
snatched—like bread from a child’s hand. He explained they only target the
city’s wealthy: foreign workers, tourists, and dream-rich elites. I hadn’t yet
realized that here, dreams are produced and traded like precious gems.
Their bodies erupted in grotesque boils, like some divine curse. But the illness spared outsiders—those without native blood—or anyone still gifted with the ability to dream. Others survived by consuming factory-made dreams. Yet, how many still have the wealth to buy them even once a month?
But such things are none of my concern. What bothers me more is the native cuisine—aside from meat and beans, their staples are only potatoes, eggs, and butter. How do they survive, amid disease, cold, and ever-present thieves? These people are mysteries—grey shadows, flitting through fog and ruin, vanishing without trace.
For seven generations now, they’ve lived like this: no homes, no legacy, no dreams. They dress in rags—patched furs, beggar’s coats—emitting sour stench and leaking pus from monstrous blisters. Yet somehow, I see in this a strange wisdom: a way to recycle suffering into the fuel of life. They live hidden lives, migrating through tunnels and sewers, beneath the city’s bones—dwelling with rats, roaches, snakes, and bats, which double as emergency rations. To keep warm, they burn whatever they find, even dream waste—further poisoning their skin.
When temperatures rise a little, they creep into ruins—remnants of war. Children, sometimes, appear on the greyed-out streets, only to vanish into snowbanks when strangers approach.
Once, they say, Dreamland was wealthy. Its economy—so they say—was built on the dreams of a tycoon the likes of Soros. But after a devastating recession and a popular uprising against a monstrous regime, the city crumbled. Now, only smoke, dust, and scavengers remain.
Here, dreaming is no trivial matter. That’s why, as a dream archivist, I have no right to edit or embellish the hundreds of submissions I receive each day. My task is simple: file them, code them, and classify them for future retrieval.
My boss says dreaming here is as complicated as childbirth. Each day, I sit before my screen from morning till dusk, reviewing the incoming stream of slides and emails. I sort them into temporary folders, then transfer them to special archives categorized by type, title, length, date of conception, and detailed biographical data of the dreamers. Even their social status is recorded. After a year, I can tell a mayor’s dream from a thief’s.
When not working, I sit by my apartment window, watching the grey-white city, blanketed by dream dust and snow—like molten tin poured from the sky. Sometimes, I’m awed by its stark beauty—though it terrifies me too.
My company has given me a special place—on the fourth floor of an old museum—so I can enjoy the view. It's only 100 steps from the office. Zulma, a forty-something maid, once told me the museum once held the nation’s treasures—cultural relics and historical glories. Now it's been gutted and turned into lodging for foreigners like me.
The sky darkens further. A snowstorm is surely coming. All broadcasts and communications with the outside world have been down for six months now due to extreme weather. I turn the heater to 30 degrees, nibble on a potato, and sip hot coffee by the window. From here, I observe the city's endless twilight. Here, day and night are indistinguishable—only marked by an ancient wall clock with a faded face. The city looks the same at any hour: pale, grey, mournful. Even in daylight, sulfur-scented fog spews from factory chimneys, polluting the air before dreams are packaged and sold.
In my early months here, I thought the city uninhabited save for us foreign workers. Through the window, I’d only catch fleeting figures—blurs of movement—black dots dissolving into snow. It seemed impossible that this place was filled with robbers and mysterious natives. But then again, I don’t truly care. My contract ends in a month. Soon, I’ll return to the beloved Earth.
And yet... solitude has a way of breeding curiosity. It drives me to the edge of the square, near the gates that separate the city’s heart from the outer slums. In nearly a year here, I’ve not once spoken to a native—save for Zulma, the tall, once-beautiful woman.
She no longer resembles the others. She’s used to perfume, lipstick, antibiotics, and entertaining foreign men—though never me. I’ve sworn never to mix such things with this strange land.
Every time I pass a native, they vanish—like phantoms. They melt into shadows, slip through the cracks of ruined buildings and snow tunnels, disappearing into dark alleyways that lead... who knows where?
The hour is still early, I think. A biting wind hurls icy flakes at my window, creating a primal whistling sound. I burrow deeper into the blanket, eyes closed, still half-asleep.
Then something hard—like cold metal—presses against my forehead. My eyes snap open.
Zulma. Naked. Straddling me. A gun aimed at my skull.
“Move, and I’ll shoot,” she growls.
Slowly, she lowers herself, straddling my stomach, pistol still in hand. Her eyes gleam—a hypnotic, deadly light. Half-awake, half-dreaming, I watch as she cocks the weapon and plunges the barrel into my mouth, blocking my breath.
The hour is still early, I think. But I know—I’ve run out of time. Even for prayer.
“Your dream... or your life,” she whispers—or moans.
But by then, I no longer have the time to understand. My hands thrash on the bed, grasping for something. A sudden blow to my skull dims the world around me.
And now, I find myself drifting—adrift in a continent made of dream shards.
Before darkness claims me fully, I hear, faintly, a buzzsaw starting up… mingled with a woman’s laughter and a beast’s moan of lust.
Indeed, I am nothing more than a lonely scanner—an
eternal thief—wandering from one dream to another.
Sanggau, 2024
*) Orginal Title: Negeri Mimpi, published in the Jendela Sarawak magazine, Malaysia,
2004
