When we sleep, we dream, and when we dream, we are together. The fastest song we know plays so slowly. We sit together on a bench while it hums and droans. We live a dozen lives on a bench, growing old and growing young, watching uncountable sunrises and sunsets. Innocense, fear, cynacism. Hope, acceptance, tranquility. Death and birth. The colors span a spectrum unimaginable, until the sun comes up one day and we are awake. And we are apart. And we are alone.
Heading north from the forest, you enter a clearing. It's some kind of field, but the grass has been recently cut. There's a faint smell of lawn mower gas. You see a chair on the other end of the field and decide to head towards it, since it's the first sign of civilization you have seen since the accident. ~~~ You sit on the chair and take a better look around. There's more furniture that you couldn't see from across the field. There's a small table with a few tea cups on it. No tea. Someone left a blanket lying on the ground. It has some grass clippings on it, but it's dry and it's getting dark and you're getting cold. You shake the blanket to remove the grass and then drape it over yourself. The stars look especially bright. ~~~ You have the flying dream again. Everyone you ever knew is on the ground, growing ever distant. They look like people, then dogs, then ants, and then nothing. You keep ascending towards the sky, doing all that you can to keep yourself grounded. This force, either within you or acting upon you, sees to it that you stay on course. Upward, upward. The air is thinning and you start to black out. You hear a distant sound. You hear it again, closer. Suddenly, impact. ~~~ You are on your back, still within the chair. The stars are gone. You should probably get up, but you can't think of a convincing reason why.
My hands are dry and changing colors. More and more skin flakes off as the days go by. I dream metamorphosis -- my hands growing legs, wings, teeth -- chewing themselves free from my arms, scurrying away, and taking flight. They are attracted to lights like moths, and buzz around overhead for a day or two before exhausting themselves and falling as mottled husks to my floor.
Someone holds an object to my head and tells me to write. I am nervous now, for two reasons (at least). One: I don't know what is being held to my head, so I am assuming the worst. Some kind of instrument of swift removal of this writer from this particular plane of existance. Two: I have trouble writing anything when someone is standing behind me and looking over my shoulder. I thank my uknown writing partner for their motivational actions, but ask them to leave and come back after I finish writing. I assure them that I will remain shaken for quite some time, even in their absence. Much to my surprise, they leave the room. I write a few stupid sentences about being held at my computer at potential gun point and forced to write something. I then upload it to the Internet and escape out the window, never to return.