62 Ymiden, 724
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Dare he blink and lose foothold on whatever philosophical mountain he was trying to climb. The mountain was both large and small all at the same time. Quite a paradox, if you asked him, but there was a purpose for this. Someone may look at a chore in need of being completed and view it with a sense of distaste, extreme hatred, or feelings of overwhelm that may glue them in place with no offering of means or reason other than the fact that such a chore needed to be completed. On the other side of the coin, the chore may be simple, so menial, that it could be accomplished in less than two minutes. It was all about perspective and frame of mind. This mountain of his he was having difficulty climbing felt right into the category similar to such an analogy. He was dreaming, that much he knew, but he was dreaming of something he cared not to dream about because it reminded him too much of reality. The purpose of his dreams was to extract himself from reality, distance himself from all the things that made life… blah. Responsibilities, situations that necessitated feelings of all kinds of things he wasn't too keen on feeling… His dreams, at least the ones that were nightmarish in nature, were meant to invoke a sense of solitude. They were meant to be a reprieve from all those wakeful woes he encountered during his times conscious. But this mountain, this dream, was already starting out sour. He found himself stationed, unmoving, in front of a large pile of laundry he very much didn’t want to wash. It was only natural that he cursed vulgar words left and right of the language barrier. It was only natural he kick himself with remorse by landing himself into such an undesirable dreamscape. Wasn't there anything he could do about it?
To any outsider, this could seem pathetic. I mean, just act like an adult and do what you're supposed to, right? Kotton wanted to, he really did, but his motivation was apathetic to what his heart wanted. Maybe he would start small, just as how he wished himself to view this mountain of tasks in front of him. He would take one article of clothing, say a sock, and move it to the washing basin to his side. He would apply a small, coin sized amount of soap, and spend no more than a few moments wringing the sock between his hands. Then, he would move onto the next article of clothing without acknowledging just how vast the pile of dirty laundry keeping him from finality was.
Starting was always the hardest part. He was aware of this not only from the tales woven by others, but from personal experience. Once you bridged that gap of task paralysis, that river of doubt and lack of motivation, continuing a certain task was illimitably easy. It was akin to track and field. The first hurdle was always the hardest, but once you’ve jumped one, you’ve jumped them all.
However, as what was custom of dreams, things were always changing. A wall may appear behind you without notice. There may grow a mushroom at your feet. Or, at least in this particular instance, the enormous pile of laundry in front of you could simply disappear. Kotton wasn’t exactly heartbroken when it did, but he was still left curious as to why it had. He hadn’t done that, after all, and he wasn’t in the mood to relinquish control to whatever the land of Emea had in store for him. At least not this very night, not when he had started to feel more confident in his ability to dreamwalk.
He thought aloud as he proceeded with caution towards what had once been a massive load of dirty clothes. “Not suwe what you’we telling me, and I’m not entiwely fuming at the wesult, but what in the actual hell is going on? Is this a message? Am I supposed to take this as a sign, something meant of my innew consciousness to detewmine?”
He made another step through what had been blocked by week-old socks, dirty shirts, and obscenely odorous underwear. He readied himself to expect something, anything. He didn't know what to expect, so what was something, anything was as great preparation as he could make. That’s how things worked in a dream. At least, that’s how things worked in his dreams.
Still, nothing happened, not without his say so, which he so casually decided to implore with what little abilities he had. He still couldn't crest the horizons that linked dreamworld to dreamworld, but that didn't keep him from dreaming. Ha! Think about that! It took him a moment to see clearly, but it didn’t take more than that singular moment before his eyes picked up on the bodies various persons dressed up in unusual attire. Initially, the young man thought they were wearing garb of cultures he had yet to research. However, after longer than he cared to admit, he came to realise that these people were wearing his clothes. And they weren’t simply people, but people he knew.
His line of sight was inadvertently obstructed by the random manifestation of a wall undoubtedly crafted out of iron based on the metal clang it made when it hit the ground. Kotton only moved to hit it with his knuckles to make sure it's substance was what he assumed it to be. Was this another message? Was this another sign? He recalled the time when he had entered Emea only to find himself confined behind a transparent barrier. He was solemnly left to fend for himself with feelings of abandonment all the while watching his closest friends and dear relatives enjoy themselves in absence of his company. During this dream, he had managed to break free of his entrapment. Was his subconscious attempting to yet again exploit the weakness he had of feeling cast out from society?
No, this was something different. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was certain this barricade before him was attempting to share a story different from the one he had previously experienced.
Kotton refused to push against the iron wall. He already knew it wouldn’t give way. He chose to listen to his intuition instead. The iron wall was only so many metres tall. It was much taller than he was able to jump, but if he thought long enough and hard enough, he could find a way to hurdle this interfering pillar.
There had been scriptures his inquisitive eye had affixed to during the many times he had visited the public library. There were stories of other races, humanoid beings that had been vested with the ability to fly- wings! Attached to their backsides or some other closely located vestige, these beings could transcend the horizontal plane with phenomenal ease. If his memory served him right, there were the Avriel and the Hyludin. These were races who had strapped to their backs the very structures that enabled them to climb mountains no matter their size.
From the diagrams he had researched during the hours he had spent at the library, he dug deep within his psyche and pulled every important part necessary all so he could envision what he desired his astral projection to become. Basics right there, next to any and all details dared to be consider, he focused before propagating his self-projection into the form of an Avriel.
His wings glistened with shades of colour he could only imagine during the time he spent frolicking the realms of Emea. Had he try recreate this vision in the waking world, he would surely come asunder with fits of rage, befuddlement, and complete and utter mental turmoil. But now was not the time to inspect and admire the glamour of his newly fashioned appendages. He needed to scale this wall and find out what dared lay on the other side.
Flap, flap, flap- he was new at this and thus wasn’t sure on how to utilise such newfound accessories. But he managed, and he managed still to reach a height higher than the wall, before... not so graciously landing on the other side. What had been a flap, flap, flap had become a flap, oh shit, pew, crash, pound against the gravel underfoot of a makeshift Avriel.
Kotton didn’t know what to expect. Maybe a waterfall crafted out of laffy-taffy or a storm so violent his head would spin just thinking about the ways as to avoid it. Hell, there could be balls of gum descending from the sky and he wouldn't be bewildered. Yet, all there was was the same thing he had seen before only on the other side of atrocious iron wall that had landed directly in front of him. That being said, it was left to Kotton to investigate and explore, maybe come up with conclusions as to why it had been so important for him to be barred from this part of his dream land.
The first thing he came across was not the solid sphere of gum drio, it was not a recently chewed piece of laffy-taffy, and it was most definitely not remnants of a hailstorm he hadn’t been present to witness. No, instead, there, in front of his left shoe was a footprint. He immediately made a search of the surrounding area until he found additional footprints. He followed them, with the hopes of finding the identity of whoever had imprinted them inside the sand.
It was a long and arduous journey. It was more timely than Kotton had ever thought it would be, but eventually he made headway after having found a young man standing only a half-metre away from the last footprint made. And the man occupying the same foot size, the same boot print, was none other than Worick.
There was a Worick playing with a bat, attempting to hit a pinata that had been tied by a string levelled far too high for anyone to accurately strike. There was another Worick attempting to roll a heavy ball along a lane with the attempt of striking the pins that had been lined up at the end. There was also a Worick who had been made flushed tomato-red- he was trying his hardest to explain to someone why some things were the way they were, medically speaking. These were all versions of Kotton’s friend that he remembered. And it didn't matter how ling ago these memories had been made.
There was also a casket.
And inside it was cradled his most endeared friend.
Face white.
Unmoving.
Dead.
Dead.
Kotton coughed. He nearly upheaved nothing but bile. He was taken aback and hadn’t been able to swallow the saliva in his mouth. He hadn't even been given the time to execute a proper breath before seeing such a profound and ghastly sight.
What was Worick doing in a casket? What in the actual fuck was going on here?
The thrum of a violin sounded from behind him. It encouraged his body to rotate, on its own, so as to view, front and centre, source of the sound. A fully-bodied choir was standing at the rear of what Kotton could only assume was a church, or mosque, or whatever have you based on whatever religion followed.
His thoughts were still absolute, no matter how stagnant. No. Absolutely not, he thought. There was no way Worick was there, made a lifeless corpse ensconced by cheap leather in the very centre of a coffin made out of fake-arse wood.
But… this was a dream right? And that meant it wasn’t real, right? Which also meant that there was most probably a message Kotton had still yet to determine and decipher all for his own good.
“So what?” he demanded with a quaking voice from a vacant room he had dismissed himself into. The choir faded as tensions rose.
Of course there was no answer. Who was he kidding? He was talking to the empty expanse of an arbitrary dreamworld he had only recently happened upon. Shaken, but surely not stirred, Kotton could only stare at the blank wallpaper in front of him. He stared at the wall, hoping, not hoping, thinking of answers but also not daring to contemplate the reasons for what he had been witnessed. He made a side-eye at the pews to his side before staring once again at his own shoes. He knew there was something to be had here. There was a meaning to this whole ordeal. But Kotton wouldn't verbalise it. He would speak aloud his thoughts or his feelings; he would only retain this information for the sake of himself.
Yes, his friends and family would feel the same way he felt about Worick if he had ultimately chosen to slice his wrists or wrung his neck via rope. Yes, those he loved would fall to despair at the acknowledgement that he was dead by his own hand. And yes, it was very obvious that his suicide would lead to feelings of guilt, doubt, depression and grief.
In a last minute decision, he focused the being as an unconscious entity into the humanoid form of a worm with hopes that with smaller volume came smaller emotions.
If his friend hadn’t died that night, he surely would have.
To any outsider, this could seem pathetic. I mean, just act like an adult and do what you're supposed to, right? Kotton wanted to, he really did, but his motivation was apathetic to what his heart wanted. Maybe he would start small, just as how he wished himself to view this mountain of tasks in front of him. He would take one article of clothing, say a sock, and move it to the washing basin to his side. He would apply a small, coin sized amount of soap, and spend no more than a few moments wringing the sock between his hands. Then, he would move onto the next article of clothing without acknowledging just how vast the pile of dirty laundry keeping him from finality was.
Starting was always the hardest part. He was aware of this not only from the tales woven by others, but from personal experience. Once you bridged that gap of task paralysis, that river of doubt and lack of motivation, continuing a certain task was illimitably easy. It was akin to track and field. The first hurdle was always the hardest, but once you’ve jumped one, you’ve jumped them all.
However, as what was custom of dreams, things were always changing. A wall may appear behind you without notice. There may grow a mushroom at your feet. Or, at least in this particular instance, the enormous pile of laundry in front of you could simply disappear. Kotton wasn’t exactly heartbroken when it did, but he was still left curious as to why it had. He hadn’t done that, after all, and he wasn’t in the mood to relinquish control to whatever the land of Emea had in store for him. At least not this very night, not when he had started to feel more confident in his ability to dreamwalk.
He thought aloud as he proceeded with caution towards what had once been a massive load of dirty clothes. “Not suwe what you’we telling me, and I’m not entiwely fuming at the wesult, but what in the actual hell is going on? Is this a message? Am I supposed to take this as a sign, something meant of my innew consciousness to detewmine?”
He made another step through what had been blocked by week-old socks, dirty shirts, and obscenely odorous underwear. He readied himself to expect something, anything. He didn't know what to expect, so what was something, anything was as great preparation as he could make. That’s how things worked in a dream. At least, that’s how things worked in his dreams.
Still, nothing happened, not without his say so, which he so casually decided to implore with what little abilities he had. He still couldn't crest the horizons that linked dreamworld to dreamworld, but that didn't keep him from dreaming. Ha! Think about that! It took him a moment to see clearly, but it didn’t take more than that singular moment before his eyes picked up on the bodies various persons dressed up in unusual attire. Initially, the young man thought they were wearing garb of cultures he had yet to research. However, after longer than he cared to admit, he came to realise that these people were wearing his clothes. And they weren’t simply people, but people he knew.
His line of sight was inadvertently obstructed by the random manifestation of a wall undoubtedly crafted out of iron based on the metal clang it made when it hit the ground. Kotton only moved to hit it with his knuckles to make sure it's substance was what he assumed it to be. Was this another message? Was this another sign? He recalled the time when he had entered Emea only to find himself confined behind a transparent barrier. He was solemnly left to fend for himself with feelings of abandonment all the while watching his closest friends and dear relatives enjoy themselves in absence of his company. During this dream, he had managed to break free of his entrapment. Was his subconscious attempting to yet again exploit the weakness he had of feeling cast out from society?
No, this was something different. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he was certain this barricade before him was attempting to share a story different from the one he had previously experienced.
Kotton refused to push against the iron wall. He already knew it wouldn’t give way. He chose to listen to his intuition instead. The iron wall was only so many metres tall. It was much taller than he was able to jump, but if he thought long enough and hard enough, he could find a way to hurdle this interfering pillar.
There had been scriptures his inquisitive eye had affixed to during the many times he had visited the public library. There were stories of other races, humanoid beings that had been vested with the ability to fly- wings! Attached to their backsides or some other closely located vestige, these beings could transcend the horizontal plane with phenomenal ease. If his memory served him right, there were the Avriel and the Hyludin. These were races who had strapped to their backs the very structures that enabled them to climb mountains no matter their size.
From the diagrams he had researched during the hours he had spent at the library, he dug deep within his psyche and pulled every important part necessary all so he could envision what he desired his astral projection to become. Basics right there, next to any and all details dared to be consider, he focused before propagating his self-projection into the form of an Avriel.
His wings glistened with shades of colour he could only imagine during the time he spent frolicking the realms of Emea. Had he try recreate this vision in the waking world, he would surely come asunder with fits of rage, befuddlement, and complete and utter mental turmoil. But now was not the time to inspect and admire the glamour of his newly fashioned appendages. He needed to scale this wall and find out what dared lay on the other side.
Flap, flap, flap- he was new at this and thus wasn’t sure on how to utilise such newfound accessories. But he managed, and he managed still to reach a height higher than the wall, before... not so graciously landing on the other side. What had been a flap, flap, flap had become a flap, oh shit, pew, crash, pound against the gravel underfoot of a makeshift Avriel.
Kotton didn’t know what to expect. Maybe a waterfall crafted out of laffy-taffy or a storm so violent his head would spin just thinking about the ways as to avoid it. Hell, there could be balls of gum descending from the sky and he wouldn't be bewildered. Yet, all there was was the same thing he had seen before only on the other side of atrocious iron wall that had landed directly in front of him. That being said, it was left to Kotton to investigate and explore, maybe come up with conclusions as to why it had been so important for him to be barred from this part of his dream land.
The first thing he came across was not the solid sphere of gum drio, it was not a recently chewed piece of laffy-taffy, and it was most definitely not remnants of a hailstorm he hadn’t been present to witness. No, instead, there, in front of his left shoe was a footprint. He immediately made a search of the surrounding area until he found additional footprints. He followed them, with the hopes of finding the identity of whoever had imprinted them inside the sand.
It was a long and arduous journey. It was more timely than Kotton had ever thought it would be, but eventually he made headway after having found a young man standing only a half-metre away from the last footprint made. And the man occupying the same foot size, the same boot print, was none other than Worick.
There was a Worick playing with a bat, attempting to hit a pinata that had been tied by a string levelled far too high for anyone to accurately strike. There was another Worick attempting to roll a heavy ball along a lane with the attempt of striking the pins that had been lined up at the end. There was also a Worick who had been made flushed tomato-red- he was trying his hardest to explain to someone why some things were the way they were, medically speaking. These were all versions of Kotton’s friend that he remembered. And it didn't matter how ling ago these memories had been made.
There was also a casket.
And inside it was cradled his most endeared friend.
Face white.
Unmoving.
Dead.
Dead.
Kotton coughed. He nearly upheaved nothing but bile. He was taken aback and hadn’t been able to swallow the saliva in his mouth. He hadn't even been given the time to execute a proper breath before seeing such a profound and ghastly sight.
What was Worick doing in a casket? What in the actual fuck was going on here?
The thrum of a violin sounded from behind him. It encouraged his body to rotate, on its own, so as to view, front and centre, source of the sound. A fully-bodied choir was standing at the rear of what Kotton could only assume was a church, or mosque, or whatever have you based on whatever religion followed.
His thoughts were still absolute, no matter how stagnant. No. Absolutely not, he thought. There was no way Worick was there, made a lifeless corpse ensconced by cheap leather in the very centre of a coffin made out of fake-arse wood.
But… this was a dream right? And that meant it wasn’t real, right? Which also meant that there was most probably a message Kotton had still yet to determine and decipher all for his own good.
“So what?” he demanded with a quaking voice from a vacant room he had dismissed himself into. The choir faded as tensions rose.
Of course there was no answer. Who was he kidding? He was talking to the empty expanse of an arbitrary dreamworld he had only recently happened upon. Shaken, but surely not stirred, Kotton could only stare at the blank wallpaper in front of him. He stared at the wall, hoping, not hoping, thinking of answers but also not daring to contemplate the reasons for what he had been witnessed. He made a side-eye at the pews to his side before staring once again at his own shoes. He knew there was something to be had here. There was a meaning to this whole ordeal. But Kotton wouldn't verbalise it. He would speak aloud his thoughts or his feelings; he would only retain this information for the sake of himself.
Yes, his friends and family would feel the same way he felt about Worick if he had ultimately chosen to slice his wrists or wrung his neck via rope. Yes, those he loved would fall to despair at the acknowledgement that he was dead by his own hand. And yes, it was very obvious that his suicide would lead to feelings of guilt, doubt, depression and grief.
In a last minute decision, he focused the being as an unconscious entity into the humanoid form of a worm with hopes that with smaller volume came smaller emotions.
If his friend hadn’t died that night, he surely would have.