Barbarus dreamt of two belts hanging upon a plastic coat hanger, their belt buckles reflecting opaque sunlight: tangible geometrical rays of brightness, obvious in form and function. Barbarus dreamt of two belts hanging upon a plastic coat hanger, their belt buckles reflecting opaque sunlight: tangible geometrical rays of brightness, obvious in form and function.
Perhaps, Barbarus' thought, he meant to kill himself. Within his closet, in the real world with clear beams of light, Barbarus had only one belt with only one buckle, hanging not on a flimsy coat hanger made of low-quality plastic, but rather of sturdy, laboratory tested carbon-fiber. There were only one-hundred of them in the world. Deluxe; unique; premium; special beyond special.
So, Barbarus poured himself a bowl of Wheaty Bits. Afterall, if someone can divine their future in tea leaves, why not in cereal crumbs? He read an article (on tea leaves); or had he; he hadn’t. One Wheaty Bit, two Wheaty Bit — evens are lucky, odds expose his suicidal tendencies — three Wheaty Bit, four...
He had read a book on dreams. Symbols, proxies, archetypes, manifestations, crustaceans, and so on, all meaning something and that something meaning a whole lot of other somethings. A dream of dying parents: separation anxiety, which is indicative of the indulged modern generation; An additional belt, suicidal tendencies, the woeful state of insurance estimators, overworked and hated by the company and the client (forty-eight, lucky number [forty-nine...fifty!...]. And that shoddy coat hanger — one man’s woe is a nation’s indifference. Simply tragic, how he underestimates himself.
Only forty-eight, but a humble insurance estimator, and already he will take the psychology world by storm.
“Why Barbarus how did you manage; how could you manage; simply outstanding” Camera flash. Smile flash. “Work. Hard work. The American Dream.” (Barbarus loved celebrities who gave simple life advice. Brings them down to earth, makes them human. Like they’re nothing special. But they are, like that singer, with the bum-bum-bum song, that then goes— )
— Lost count of the Wheaty Bits. How serendipitous, thought Barbarus, to lose track of my sanity, of my state! “It’s like eating Wheaty Bits really,” laugh. Flash smile. “No, really...” He’ll fill in the rest later. As he always does. Barbarus placed the Wheaty Bits back into the cupboard alongside the identical but unopened boxes. Then he left, the Wheaty Bits still hidden from the sun; they’d come out again tomorrow: the Wheaty Bits and the sun. Unless Barbarus died. Then just the sun.