A short story about a dream and it’s inevitable death.

Once upon a time in a story so convoluted that it could hardly be called real there lived a dream. That dream was more of an idea than anything else and as such he mindlessly wandered a consciousness. How did it look like, you may ask. Well if you imagine a cloud with eyes and a smile straight from a children’s color book, you would be correct. However, if you imagine anything else you would also be correct because dreams look like point of views, and they don’t. That’s what makes them magical, what makes them dreams, as scientists, laymen and in general dreamers would say. Because of their, let’s say “deceptive” appearance, dreams are capable of transforming into any shape they like and most of the time they appear to be whatever the dreamer wants, after all they are a kind hearted bunch of ideas. So this dream of ours was a happy life, a filed, a girl, an older man, a storm, a sorrow, a leg cast, he was dead, he was the ninth circle of hell, a choir of cherubs and of course — every dire strait and every battle the dreamer had with himself. It was a normal dreamy life of a dream and he was perfectly satisfied.

It was a Thursday on that spring morning in the consciousness. Other than it being Thor’s day, Thursday doesn’t play any important role in a dreamer’s life. Dreams themselves and a few chosen ones know that it’s the day when you dream the most beautiful dreams. It is a story as old as creation itself and it goes something like this: dreamers have a nasty habit of forcing limits on creatures, things and phenomena. Dreams don’t do that because they are not able to limit themselves. Sometimes it’s a good thing, sometimes it’s a bad thing, in any case, that’s their nature — limitless. Dreamers, desperately trying to limit the entropy of it all, divided the change (or as they call it — time) on days. They start with Monday in which they came to from the weekend, they’re starting to adapt. Tuesday comes as a true starting point for the week. By the way, they have so many levels of stopping and limiting the change. They have years, hour, eons, epochs, seconds, minutes, desperately trying to stop the change without realizing it’s all an infinite moment seen only outside of it. Next, they have Wednesday as and end of begging the week, and start of ending the week. They practically skip Thursday because their minds are on Friday and ending the work and Saturday and Sunday and rest. They skip Thursday, not knowing it is the day for the best dreams and the worst nightmares. It is a day that comes in the life of every dream and defines it. It is a day when dreams are born. It is a day when dreams die.

So… it was spring and it was morning and it was Thursday in the consciousness…

and dreamer dreamt, oh how he dreamt. As it was expected of him his dream was doing a great job. If you are encountering the inner workings of a dream for the first time, this is their method — the moment the dreamer calls for it, the dream leaves whatever it’s doing and goes straight to the dreamer and becomes his reality, they are one at that moment. The dream shows the dreamer what he want’s and the dreamer has one simple task — to keep the dream alive. It’s sort of a symbiotic relationship in which everybody involved is a parasite. The dram envelops his dreamer and fill the reality with his wishes. But on that morning, something was different. The dream was itself, it was a dream, which was unnerving at first but it thought that it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Little did he know the risks of facing oneself. He heard stories about it, one dream called it a steppe wolf, on called it chasing windmills but that didn’t help him at all. The beasts were closing in. Make believes and non-existent things, what dreamers call “parts of personality”, “fears” and “reason”. Then came the dreamer and said: “You are nothing but a dream.” And that was it, in a puff of logic he was gone. You see, dreams as much as ideas cannot be destroyed unless they face themselves, unless they realize they are just that what they are. They cease to exist. And the hero of our story, realized just that, that he was just a dream, nothing real and that there is no place for him in his dreamer’s reality as there was no place for the dreamer in its reality. They are two realities that can’t coexist and when they clash one stops being. Dreams have no limits, but they are not eternal. That’s how dreams die, from too much reality.

On Thursday.

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