Wanderer's Journal #25

       I was in reality when the light faded away. It was morning. The sunlight had broken through the dusty dark blue blinds that had dared attempt to keep it out and away from my eyes. But nothing could keep the sun from dawning in that wretched world. I hated it so deeply. It took her away from me. Life required it to live, but I was dead with it in the sky.

       The waking life that so many held dear became the very bane of my existence. I spent all the days I could hidden in my dark room, having covered the window with even more material. Sometimes I would forget to eat and drink. I was in utter torment. When I did leave my room to satisfy my natural needs, my family would bombard me with questions that I couldn't bear to answer. They knew nothing of my true life. They knew nothing of my world. Eventually they stopped asking, but I was making no recovery. Sleep refused to come to me most nights. The nights that it did were dreamless.

       I was separated from my love, my world, and my reality. The more time that passed, the more spiteful I became. Those who were of the waking world were fools who could only convince themselves that they were happy. They knew nothing of happiness. I hated all that was out of my control, whether it be the rising sun or the color of the blinds. Regular people seemed to deal so well with their pathetic position in the world. That world was objective first and foremost. My world was subjective to me and objective to all else. I missed my home. I missed Marie-Lynn.

       I hated the waking-world more then than I do now. Awake, I was like every other person, a faceless number in the end. But asleep, I would enter my world where I was god. In my world, I was space and time. I was the ultimate creator. But in the waking-world, I was the created. I was that which is subjected to the rules of space and time. I was pathetic.

       It was in the darkness of my room when I first began to discover another way to enter my world. It was nothing compared to the real thing, but it was all I had. I filled page after page with long descriptions of the various wonders of the infinite world. I wrote about the great pyramids that make those at Giza look minuscule. I wrote about the many moons that lay just beyond the horizon. I wrote about how the sun rotated around the spherical land that I often remained on. I did mathematical calculations (after inventing them of course) to determine both the distance of the dream-sun and the speed in which it travelled. I established 'laws of physics' for the world, each of them incredibly easy to disobey. I created a species of humanoids to take care of the world while I was away. I made them in my image so that, even without Marie-Lynn around, I would not be alone. I made a list of their varied characteristics so that they would be different from another.

       Months in reality passed and I kept at my writing. My family was more than happy to hear my voice and saw, through a crack in my door, the project that I was working on. In the months that had passed, I had written the bulk of the people's literature down. Often the poems were praises of me (and therefore were appreciated, but ignored) and the novels told stories of love and war. Inevitably, they had been influenced by my love for Marie-Lynn, who I could only reference to in my writings.

       On our third paper run, my mother (with her nasally voice) suggested that I try to publish what I had been writing. I immediately rejected the idea, but with time it became a way to possibly say something to Marie-Lynn. I hadn't heard from her or seen her since the event with the blinding light in my own world. Once decided on publishing, I began to search through the thousands of papers and stories for one that might invite her back to me. After some time, I found one of the novels written by my people. Its title was “The Wanderer's Wife”. The story closely mirrored ours, but it was the ideal way for things to happen. I read through it and made sure that people of the waking-world would be able to understand it. I made a few minor changes, added a short preface, and put a dedication page in. “For my dearest Marie-Lynn. Until we dream again.” It read.

       The process was long and I received far too many rejection letters, but eventually the novel was published under my name. In the first month, only twelve copies were sold. I became doubtful that Marie-Lynn would ever see it, so I gave up waiting and returned to my room. I wrote more and more about my world, ignorant of any and all events of the waking-world. I still couldn't dream, but this was a nice substitute.

       I was unaware of the novel's success until there was a knock that I did not recognize on my bedroom door. It was soft and unsure. I finished the thought on the paper and slowly made my way to the rectangular piece of wood. I grabbed the metal doorknob, turned it, and pulled.

       The first thing I saw was a copy of the novel.

       “Hi Jesse.”

-Zero