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Cloak of Sleep: Reality of Dreams
"I've always envied people who sleep deeply," said a voice from the shadows of my mind, as I lay in bed, my thoughts racing like wild horses in the vast plains of my imagination. The words echoed, a distant memory of a Stephen King novel I had once read. "They live twice. Once in their dreams and once in their waking lives."
💤 😴
A #WRITCO Fantasy
🛏️ 🌙
DREAMER
OF
DREAMS
✨ ⭐ ✨
As my eyelids grew heavy, I slipped into a realm where the fabric of reality was woven by the very threads of my thoughts. It was a place of infinite wonder, where the impossible danced with the probable and the stars whispered secrets only heard in the quiet whispers of slumber. Here, the laws of physics were mere suggestions, and the only limit was the cage of my own imagination.
"Is this heaven?" a young girl with eyes of emerald asked, her voice as soft as a summer breeze. She looked around at the world I had unwittingly conjured, a place where the sky was a canvas painted by a mad artist, swirls of color blending into one another in a chaotic symphony of beauty.
"No," I replied, my own voice a rumble in the quiet dreamscape. "This is just a dream."
Her smile was sad, yet knowing. "But to us, it's home," she said. "And you, you're the creator. The one who shapes our world with every thought."
The dream continued to unfold, my mind's eye observing as the people I had dreamed of went about their lives, their destinies entwined in the intricate patterns of my slumber. They built, they loved, they fought—each action a silent testament to the power of the subconscious mind.
Yet, as the nights passed and the dreams grew more vivid, so too did their awareness of my existence. They began to worship me, their creator, building grand temples and offering prayers to the being that had given them life in this realm of shadows.
"Please, don't," I begged them, feeling the weight of their adoration pressing down on me. "I'm not a god. I'm just a man with a restless mind."
But they wouldn't listen. They yearned to meet me, to touch the face of the one who had crafted their universe. And so, I took form within the dream—a transparent avatar, a mere reflection of the person I was in the waking world.
I watched as the girl grew into a woman, her eyes still holding the wisdom of the ancients, her hair a cascade of nightfall. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, a living embodiment of every love poem and sonnet I had ever read.
"You can't love me," I warned her, as we sat on a hilltop overlooking a city that breathed with life. "I'm not real. I'm just a figment of your collective imagination."
Her laughter was like the first notes of a melody that had never before been heard. "But you are," she insisted. "You're as real as any of us."
And so, I fell in love with a girl who was never meant to exist, whose heartbeat was the rhythm of my own dreams. But what kind of love could bloom in a world made of whispers and shadows?
As the days grew shorter and the nights grew longer, I found myself contemplating the ultimate escape—death. The sweet release of oblivion seemed like a gentle embrace compared to the heartache of a love that could never be.
But as I lay there, poised on the precipice of eternal sleep, a question whispered through the veil of my consciousness: if I die, what becomes of them? Do they vanish with me, or do they live on, a part of me forever bound to the fabric of the cosmos?
The decision weighed on me like a mountain, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of destiny. But as the pills slipped from my trembling hand, I knew what I had to do.
"I'll stay," I murmured to the darkness. "For you."
The world I had created watched me, their eyes filled with hope and fear. They had forced me to choose between life and a love that could never truly be, and now they held their breath, awaiting the answer that would shape their fate.
The woman grew curious about my insistence on not being a deity. "If you are not a god," she asked, "then what are you?"
"I'm just a man," I replied, "a weaver of tales, lost in the tapestry of his own mind."
Her eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she saw through the veil of the dream and into the cold reality of my waking life. "Tell us a story, then," she said, her voice filled with a child-like wonder. "A story of the world beyond our own."
I took a deep breath, and the air around us shimmered as I spoke of lands where the sun never set, and rivers ran with chocolate instead of water. Of creatures that defied logic, and adventures that could fill a thousand lifetimes.
The people gathered around, their faces alight with excitement, hanging on every word. They had never known a world other than the one I had dreamed for them, and the thought of more filled them with a longing that was almost tangible.
But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, their worship grew more fervent, their prayers more insistent. They built me palaces of crystal and gold, offered me the hearts of their enemies, and sang songs of my greatness that...
💤 😴
A #WRITCO Fantasy
🛏️ 🌙
DREAMER
OF
DREAMS
✨ ⭐ ✨
As my eyelids grew heavy, I slipped into a realm where the fabric of reality was woven by the very threads of my thoughts. It was a place of infinite wonder, where the impossible danced with the probable and the stars whispered secrets only heard in the quiet whispers of slumber. Here, the laws of physics were mere suggestions, and the only limit was the cage of my own imagination.
"Is this heaven?" a young girl with eyes of emerald asked, her voice as soft as a summer breeze. She looked around at the world I had unwittingly conjured, a place where the sky was a canvas painted by a mad artist, swirls of color blending into one another in a chaotic symphony of beauty.
"No," I replied, my own voice a rumble in the quiet dreamscape. "This is just a dream."
Her smile was sad, yet knowing. "But to us, it's home," she said. "And you, you're the creator. The one who shapes our world with every thought."
The dream continued to unfold, my mind's eye observing as the people I had dreamed of went about their lives, their destinies entwined in the intricate patterns of my slumber. They built, they loved, they fought—each action a silent testament to the power of the subconscious mind.
Yet, as the nights passed and the dreams grew more vivid, so too did their awareness of my existence. They began to worship me, their creator, building grand temples and offering prayers to the being that had given them life in this realm of shadows.
"Please, don't," I begged them, feeling the weight of their adoration pressing down on me. "I'm not a god. I'm just a man with a restless mind."
But they wouldn't listen. They yearned to meet me, to touch the face of the one who had crafted their universe. And so, I took form within the dream—a transparent avatar, a mere reflection of the person I was in the waking world.
I watched as the girl grew into a woman, her eyes still holding the wisdom of the ancients, her hair a cascade of nightfall. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, a living embodiment of every love poem and sonnet I had ever read.
"You can't love me," I warned her, as we sat on a hilltop overlooking a city that breathed with life. "I'm not real. I'm just a figment of your collective imagination."
Her laughter was like the first notes of a melody that had never before been heard. "But you are," she insisted. "You're as real as any of us."
And so, I fell in love with a girl who was never meant to exist, whose heartbeat was the rhythm of my own dreams. But what kind of love could bloom in a world made of whispers and shadows?
As the days grew shorter and the nights grew longer, I found myself contemplating the ultimate escape—death. The sweet release of oblivion seemed like a gentle embrace compared to the heartache of a love that could never be.
But as I lay there, poised on the precipice of eternal sleep, a question whispered through the veil of my consciousness: if I die, what becomes of them? Do they vanish with me, or do they live on, a part of me forever bound to the fabric of the cosmos?
The decision weighed on me like a mountain, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of destiny. But as the pills slipped from my trembling hand, I knew what I had to do.
"I'll stay," I murmured to the darkness. "For you."
The world I had created watched me, their eyes filled with hope and fear. They had forced me to choose between life and a love that could never truly be, and now they held their breath, awaiting the answer that would shape their fate.
The woman grew curious about my insistence on not being a deity. "If you are not a god," she asked, "then what are you?"
"I'm just a man," I replied, "a weaver of tales, lost in the tapestry of his own mind."
Her eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she saw through the veil of the dream and into the cold reality of my waking life. "Tell us a story, then," she said, her voice filled with a child-like wonder. "A story of the world beyond our own."
I took a deep breath, and the air around us shimmered as I spoke of lands where the sun never set, and rivers ran with chocolate instead of water. Of creatures that defied logic, and adventures that could fill a thousand lifetimes.
The people gathered around, their faces alight with excitement, hanging on every word. They had never known a world other than the one I had dreamed for them, and the thought of more filled them with a longing that was almost tangible.
But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, their worship grew more fervent, their prayers more insistent. They built me palaces of crystal and gold, offered me the hearts of their enemies, and sang songs of my greatness that...
