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I had a dream
Paul Verlaine did not dream. He had long come to terms with how no matter how hard he attempted to act like a human, at the end of the day, he was just a few lines of code that was implanted into him. Naturally, he did not dream, as he would categorise the act of dreaming as a more humanly feature.
(Rimbuad had tried to convince him that although he didn't dream, he was still human. Quite a baseless argument, yet verlaine said nothing against it.)
(Maybe his subconscious mind still wanted to have a tiny bit of validation that he was actually a human.)
I got everything I wanted
The only time he had experienced this novel idea of "dreaming" was after an exhausting mission. An absolutely gruelling task that he and Rimbuad were assigned to, one that required them to stay up for two days just to collect information, that the French government claimed was "of utmost importance" and "greatly thanked their best spies for completing their mission".
The moment they had extracted the necessary information and documents (as well as staining their hands with blood to deal with troublesome hurdles), they finally returned to the hotel, entirely exhausted. Verlaine only had the energy to remove his shoes before pathetically flopping onto the soft velvety texture of the bed, sleeping in his blood and sweat stained spy attire.
The only thing he heard was a soft "Sweet dreams, Paul." from the corner of the room, before falling into the deepest sleep verlaine would ever have Perhaps this voice was just his imagination.
Not what you'd think
Verlaine was floating in nothingness. Everything around him was pure white, calm, nothing and everything at the same time. He raised his head to the "sky", reaching out to catch the nothingness before him. The place where his fingertips touched the white , it instantly stained a dark red. The red immediately spread around at an alarming rate, until Verlaine was overwhelmed by the angry colour that enveloped him.
That pure, calm feeling immediately flipped over, leaving verlaine choking, drowning in the red. He gasped and flailed around, trying to find something to hold onto, but to no avail. The more he struggled, the more he couldn't breathe, the more he tried to resist. This perpetual cycle repeated multiple times, until Verlaine was quite sure he was going to sink deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper deeper —
And if I'm being honest
It dragged him down, down, down.
It might've been a nightmare
He was sure it was reality. His eyes were beginning to get cold and foggy, his vision blurry from the way his airway was blocked, with the lack of oxygen. He struggled to breathe in more air, his sad, lonely self drowning in a pool of guilt.
He had been good, good enough to be one of the most valuable spies that the French government would ever have. The problem was that he was good because he'd been forced to be good. And good was what had been required of him. Good Verlaine, strong Verlaine, smart Verlaine. A machine Verlaine. Not a human Verlaine. Better than a real human could ever accomplish, that Verlaine.
To anyone who might care
He gasped as he tried to grab onto something, anything. Pain pain pain pain — Burning searing pain shot through his whole body, as he continued struggling, drowning in the red. His arms felt numb and burned and his bones were torn, his muscles strained and his chest was aching and burning. But he couldn't move.
Thought I could fly
His body was stuck. He couldn't get any air. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't even scream.
“… ver… hear me?.. wake…i… like this…"
The voice sounded very far away, fading into the distance. He couldn't think. He had to get out of here. He had to do something.
"..paul…up… can… wake…"
The voices were fading. But he had to try.
"…to wake… can..hear—”
So I stepped off the Golden
He couldn’t move.
He couldn’t even move.
Nobody cried
He didn’t know if he was even meant to leave. But there was one thing that he could not get out of his head. He had to try and get out. He had to get to the fading voice that was calling out to him.
Nobody even noticed
Maybe he wasn’t meant to fight the natural order.
I saw them standing right there
After all, he was nothing but 2383 lines of code that some French scientist wrote at the top of their heads.
But the truth was, he wasn't nothing. He was still human. More or less. That's why he was here, struggling and drowning in his emotions. He wasn’t a perfect robot, he had his flaws just like he would define a “human”.
Yet no one would treat him like one.
In the eyes of others, he was the synthetic robot, Paul Verlaine.
Kinda thought they might care
Nobody cares.
Not about Verlaine, not about black no.12. Nobody would ever care.
I had a dream
Paul Verlaine did not dream. As someone who wasn’t even human, dreaming isn’t possible for him. Yet tonight, he accomplished an impossible feat.
I got everything I wanted
Dreams are what he defines as humans.
And in his dreams, maybe someone would treasure him as a human.
Maybe someone who understands him the best.
Rimbaud was the only one who truly understood Verlaine.
The rest of the universe could be reduced to meaningless numbers and formulas, but somehow Rimbaud was able to understand what Verlaine's head did when he put his thoughts into words.
It was Rimbaud, constantly trying to comprehend Verlaine's view of himself, always empathizing with the way Verlaine calls himself a “non-human”. Maybe now, it was Verlaine’s turn to try andmake sense of what Rimbaud had said, and what he had not said.