“Generate” I tell my brain in me. I do not utter the word,
but I do. My eyes fluttering off to sleep, I am slow embodied in a single
moment. The grandfather clock against the wall’s arms slows down with
effervescent tics. It is silently, but loudly drifting me to sleep. The eyes in
me open.
In a room
That I
CREATED.
The light is warm and modern, and it fills the room with
ethereal melody. My theme plays- the one I have not discovered yet, but have
before. I sit on a worn rocking chair, the thought of sleeping gone. The
architecture in the room reminds me of my own style, much more enclosed, almost
hugging me in its warm embrace. The warm ceiling curves down to touch the
ground with walls of the past. Cutouts from magazines line the walls, and
memories drawn by a lifetime stream past. Fashioned out of paper, my creations
line the shelves next to the ceiling. I am home, finally. It is where I spend
almost half of my life. On the ground around me are bottles of ink, collections
of feathers, and stacks of yellowed paper. Thick and deep, the paper is enough
to carry my ink and stories. I look over to see the wastepaper bin- completely
empty except for a couple of scraps. I don’t ever throw anything away, it all
too important. Across the room- directly at the vantage point of my vision is a
door with a golden handle. This is the door where all my dreams come true. Then
I stand, memories accosting me with bliss understanding. I know where I am
now. I am in my dream room. Next to the
door lies an infinite cabinet, made out of mahogany. I open the drawer of my
understanding and imagination. It is stacked full of paper, all written on with
perfect cursive. The loops are mine. I pull a stack of the paper out and lay it
down on the floor in full arrangement around me. This is a story I wrote, a
dream I have not lived yet. The plot gives me goose bumps, and I shiver. It is
beautiful, but I wonder what I am supposed to do with it. FLASH. The memories
of thousands of times I have done it rush back. I clasp the papers in my
anticipating hand and grasp the golden handle of the door. The papers in my
hand rustle-a living, tangible dream. I turn the knob and open the door to the
wind behind. It is pitch black. Nothing exists on the other side, at least not
yet. I throw the papers to the wind. I
see the world behind the dream morph into something drastic. I shut the door
behind me and walk into a new world-my dream.
