Those ebony eyes stare with endless patience. Always on me, always watching.

In my sleep, in reality, it doesn't matter to that damned chicken.

The stress and anxiety left me fatigued each day, begging for rest but dreading sleep. I suffer from a diagnosed condition called LRD or Lucid Recurring Dreams. This was the expert conclusion from a £200 session, with a recommendation of more rest and a steadily intensifying prescription of a new drug.

"The youth of today are too individualistic. They think all eyes are on them, it's their show. You're putting overwhelming pressure on yourself, young man. Just relax, and remember to increase the dosage if the dreams keep occurring... re-occurring. Ha!" Said my overpriced doctor.

“And what of the chicken? That staring poultry nightmare, what does it mean?”

“Worry about sticking to your prescription. Dreams are nothing but idle brain waves.”

Then why do they feel so real?

I was naked atop a grassy hill, overlooking an island stuck in perpetual summer.
An opened chest and a wooden table sat before me, offering clothes and basic items. I dressed, equipped tools for survival and descended towards a distant fence line.

Through an open gate, I entered a fenced-off pen with a singular tree in the centre. Another gate barred my progress further into the island.
It took me a week of dreams to discover that cutting the tree down was the key to opening the next gate.

If there was a symbolic meaning in that event, then I could not see it. I could do with Sigmund Freud analysing and interpreting the purpose of these dream scenarios.

The next pen’s grassy carpet was marred by a churned square of earth. I walked the fenced perimeter, trying to find a clear path through. When I climbed over or crawled under the fence in several places, I discovered a replica of the muddy patch I had just left.

Two dream nights later, I was digging holes in the exposed earth and had to plant seeds that immediately sprouted into purple carrots. Voila, the gate swung open.

This continued for six tedious months.
I smashed solid rock to find precious gems, I fished in ponds then built fires to cook with, I even had to read through an entire tomb written in a language of unrecognisable symbols.
Once I had completed each task they turned out to be straightforward, in hindsight. However, the initial process of discovering each stage's goal took some time.
This is because these particular dreams felt so real. And in reality, you don’t walk into a fenced field and start setting fires or get attacked by inanimate objects.
Eventually, I received a wooden sword in a pen that contained a scarecrow wielding its own wooden sword and a shield.

Now this is a task I could get behind, I originally thought. How naive of me. I had always wanted to swing a sword, though I would have preferred a sharp metal blade.

As they say, dream beggars can’t be dream choosers.
I smashed that scarecrow, yelling childish insults while wrecking its straw body.

Turns out the scarecrow didn’t like what I said about its scarecrow Mother.
It suddenly lunged out and cracked me on the shoulder, the pain felt real and, surprisingly, didn't wake me from my slumber. The scarecrow was unrelenting, slashing with its sword, pushing me over with its shield and executing me with an overhead swing.

I don’t remember dying in the dream, I suppose that is when I awoke. I do recall the excitement of stepping into the pen the next night, I was keen to face my new nemesis.

I approached with caution, making quick jabs before shuffling out of its range.
When I saw no movement from the straw-based warrior, I charged and attempted to behead it, my wooden sword lodging deep into its soft neck.
Instead of ending my foe, I gave it life.

It stabbed out with its weapon, remarkably I dodged sideways with a quick step.
The scarecrow tried to push me away with its shield, now unarmed and having two free hands, I caught the shield and yanked it out of my enemy's grasp.

My small victory was cut short when the scarecrow unleashed a flurry of powerful swings.
I retreated across the pen while my persistent foe battered my claimed shield.

I eventually crumbled under the assault, collapsing to the ground with my splintering protection falling apart in my hands.
I was buggered, and I thought I was going to die again, I really should not have said his mother cheated on his dad with a crow.

As quickly as it began, the attacks stopped. I peeked through a split in my shield and saw the scarecrow standing motionless before me. In the background, the pen’s gates swung open.
Without hesitation, I threw down my ruined shield, which was now rendered useless, and raced to the exit.

Another fenced pen, another table with another wooden sword placed on top.
No thanks, I’d decided my path was that of a lover, not a fighter.
Inspecting the area, I found a solitary chicken standing guard in the centre of the pen.

Looking back on all these endless dreams, I struggle to digest their significance. I have tried to wait out this chicken stage, hoping that by not participating, I would end this cycle or clear the stage through sheer stubbornness.
I begin to feel like a prisoner, trapped and hopeless. There’s an echo of madness here.

“Do you know the definition of insanity?” I ask my feathered acquaintance.
Its dark emotionless eyes blink back at me.

I have been stuck with this chicken for two weeks, we just stared at each other the whole time pondering the universe and reality.
I had worked out the riddle a while ago, it was a simple task.

The guilt and pity I felt was holding me back. I was meant to be a lover, but I am not going to shag this chicken to open the next gate.
Time will erode all, my guilt included. The prolonging was too much for me, the echoes grew too loud.

So I grab the sword.
Marching across the field and calling upon the power of Greyskull into my swing.
The blunt wooden edge acted like a bludgeon as I decimated the chicken’s head, those black beady eyes staring into my soul as the wood passed through its tiny brain to form a small explosion of gore and blood.

The paddock grass, once fresh and clean, was now painted with evil deeds and regret.
The last gate swings open, and the other side looks no different than before, I drop the bloody club and step through.
Maybe this time will be different?