The Bureaucracy Of Dreams

They made us fill out forms to sleep.

Triplicate carbon copies, mind you—one for the Department of Nocturnal Activities, one for the Bureau of Subconscious Regulation, and one for your personal files (mandatory retention: 47 years).

“Name of dreamer,” the clerk demanded, her voice like chalk scraping against the universe’s blackboard.

I wrote “Human” because I’d forgotten the rest.

“Duration of requested sleep cycle?”

“Forever,” I scribbled, but she crossed it out with bureaucratic fury.

“Eight hours maximum. Union rules.”

The waiting room contained seventeen people who’d been there since Tuesday. It was now Saturday. Mrs. Henderson in chair four had died Wednesday but nobody wanted to fill out the death certificate because that required different paperwork entirely.

“Next!” The clerk’s voice could strip paint from nightmares.

I approached the window—bulletproof, naturally, because dreams are dangerous things.

“Purpose of sleep?”

I paused. What was the purpose? To escape this fluorescent purgatory where even rest required governmental approval? To find some corner of existence they hadn’t yet regulated?

“Sir?”

“To remember,” I whispered.

She stamped DENIED across my application.

“Remembering requires additional permits. Form 27-B through 94-Q. Office closes at five.”

It was 4:47.

Outside, the city hummed with the sleepless. We wandered streets like ghosts, our dreams locked away in filing cabinets, our rest held hostage by rubber stamps and regulations.

But sometimes—sometimes—we’d catch each other’s eyes and share the same forbidden thought:

What if we just closed our eyes anyway?

The revolution would be measured not in bullets, but in eyelids.

Viva la siesta.

---

This short story was also published by Edge of Humanity