Short monologue; dark snippet of a troubled soul.First piece in a LONG time, so be nice ;)
|I heard once, when I was a kid, that if you die in your dreams, it’s a premonition of your imminent death. Sounds like a fairy tale to me now. Something used to scare little children for, well, I don’t know what for. To keep them in line, I guess. That’s what all that Heaven and Hell preaching was for, I reckon--nothing more than psychological Ritalin.
Now, as I stand here with this book in my hand, I’m reminded of that macabre urban legend. And preposterous as it may seem, I can’t help but wonder. What about fate? Another improvable philosophy, and yet here is the evidence. Of all the bookstores I could have chosen to enter in this vast city…
My palms are sweating to the point that I’m afraid to smear the ink. How ironic, I think; that I mock the ancient beliefs of primitive man, and here I find my salvation in tangible pulp, after hours of barren web searches. Surely it can’t be this easy.
It’s absurd, isn’t it? To think it could work? I wonder how the author would feel, if he knew how his book would be used. Perhaps I’ll write him the note. A ‘thank you’ for teaching me to dream lucidly.
So I can dream myself to death.
Beats the hell out of a gun.