Dreams
You walk into a large, octagon shaped room.� Nothing fills this area, nothing that you can see, anyway.� You step further in through the doorway, intrigued by the absence of even a window.� Your feet carry you to the center, your ears now straining to hear even the slightest sound.� This is to much avail, not a thing drifts to your ears, not even a bird's twitter.� You place your hands on your hips, frustrated by not finding anything on your so-called 'journey', somehow needing to have something to bring back from your venture down the hallway you took to get here.� Seeming to reply to these unvoiced wishes, a table appears.� Just a simple table, a kind that you'd picture being cluttered with various papers of no importance, the kind that only strange people would keep around.� No, still nothing appears on this, not even a measly scrap of a post-it note.� A shaft of light penetrates your sight, from a sky-roof you didn't know filled the room.� The silvery - yes, silvery, not normal golden sun-light - filter down onto the table, revealing high stacks of journals.� Your eyes widen at this strange occurrence, unable to imagine what sort of person would leave them to be read.�
A voice sounds through the room, a friendly, kind toned voice, seeming to come from all sides of you.� "You can read them, if you like," it says, and you turn to see a short girl step through the very doorway you entered from.� She smiles at you, and fakes a bow.� "Hello, hello.� Those journals," here, she pauses, gesturing to the volumes on the table, "belong to me.� They're filled with my dreams - day and night dreams, not my aspirations, of course.� That'd be strange, to have a room filled with those kind of journals!"� She laughs, the noise filling the barren room.� The light seems to grow brighter in response to the noise, as if triggered by the sounds.� This you don't question, finding it better to merely wait for her to continue with what she was saying.� "Any-anywho," she continues, "they're my dreams, as said.� Everyone dreams, just a lot of people don't remember them.� It's so nice to do so, even though some of them are rather stupid, they are.� But some . . . some are so amazing!"� She pauses again, and walks over to the table, trailing long fingers across the bindings of the journals.� "Oh, none of these are made up, they're not.� A friend of mine had an epic dream that lasted throughout the whole week . . . sure, it came from her head, but her waking conscious. I think they're so much more interesting when they come from your head, I do.� I've gotten inspiration from them, I have; they should be marked at the top if one of them gave me ideas for something.� Or merely insight, which I don't get often from them.� I've heard of people that rely completely on what their dreams tell them . . . I don't think I'd do that."� Her face lights up with another smile, and she steps away from the journals, back towards the door.� When she steps her feet don't seem to make even a sound, and your brow raises in response to this, attempting vainly to figure it out.� "I have to be off, for now, but do feel free to look around.� I'll probably see you later on, rest assured."� She turns, disappearing without another trace through the doorway, no sounds of footsteps echoing throughout the hallway and back to you.� A mental shrug is given to this thought, and you step toward the volumes, your fingers trailing over the covers much like your . . . 'host', as she might seem.� Each is engraved with carefully marked labels, though many have the word, 'Unfinished' scrawled on the bottom left corner.� You flip the cover of the first one open, and begin to read. |
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