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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