The Endless Dream
By Will Ritter




You read the first sentence. Having paused briefly, you resume. The second sentence is precisely as brief and unhelpful as the first - and the third, while significantly longer than both, remains absolutely uninformative. Somehow you expected more from the book, though you barely remember the book at all now, lost inside it’s depths. Without taking your eyes from the page, your fingers fumble about the thick, ancient, leather-bound cover underneath, toying with the chains, feeling their coldness and strength. You know, somewhere inside, that you should not be reading it, that it holds truths more true than your mind can fathom. And yet... And yet you also feel that the words are somehow the most basic, most simple truths in the world. They are more real than even the book which holds them. There is somebody for whom these words are written. There is one person, perhaps “person” is not the word, but one entity, one being for whom this book exists, for whom existence exists. Very, very slowly you are forcing your mind to move out from the page.

As if out of a mist, you are again aware of the man beside you. Hidden almost entirely under his cowl, only a pale, nearly white chin and thin-lipped mouth reveal that there is any “man” at all. This book is him... This book is his is what you meant to think, not “him,” it’s his. You sense the chains beneath your fingers and know that they are around his wrists as well, at all times. It was he who lent you the book, you recall, allowed you to look at this page, so long as you promised not to look anywhere else. There’s someone else here as well, maybe more. You allow your mind to reach, your eyes still glued immovably to the words, and there they are, hazy in the mist of your own skull.

Two women stand next to each other to your left. The younger one is dancing to an indeterminable rhythm. She smiles at you, and though you can not look up, her smile makes you deeply joyful and somehow confused as well. The older of the two is strangely familiar, standing proudly in a simple black dress. You have seen her before, many years ago, you think, though it is like remembering birth, perhaps more difficult. She, though deeply frightening for some reason, is the most likable person you have ever seen. Both of them have skin a milky white as the cowled man beside you.

To your right stands another woman, short and pale and mournfully ugly. She floods you with sympathy, and you get the impression that you would not be able to bear to look at her for long (if you were actually looking). Something in her sunken eyes reminds you of every time you’ve cried, of every night you’ve ever lay awake and felt alone. Beside her stands the most beautiful human being you have ever seen. Instantly you are attracted, and feel guilty for it just as quickly. But why should you, the man is undeniably and remarkably handsome... but what could you be thinking?! It is clearly a woman standing there, the most beautiful female form imaginable. As you sense the pale-skinned beauty stepping closer, you abandon any attempt to decide and merely drink in the wondrous smell of perfume (cologne?), drifting enticingly under your nose. But here you begin to worry: you near the end of the page. You must know more, must read on. The perfumed form is now on your shoulder, whispering in your ear: “The dangerous thing about making sure nothing gets to you is that, sooner or later, nothing gets to you, and nothing is a dangerous infliction indeed.”

With that, the temptation is too great, and you find that

Turn the page ... Close the book

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