I cannot live, I cannot die. I am as consistent only as far as my inconsistencies will allow. I am lonely, but I speak to everyone. Time has no meaning to me, nor would I wish it to. My world is a place of thought. Scientists try to explain me with their sensors and instruments, and with their long-winded theories. Sometimes I find myself laughing at them, for it is so absurd. Although they all ask the questions, "What is he? Who is he?" none of them really want the answer. Yes, yes, they have a different name for me, but I know when they are talking to me.
I leave them to their experiments in the day and visit them every night. I feed the fire, perhaps believing that someday one of them will discover just who I am or what I am and I will no longer be alone.
Sometimes I envy them. It is one of those "Ironic Instances" that are simply not up to you. The very comfort that I provide their little minds, I myself cannot enjoy. But, that is the way of things. Everything is interlaced in a fabric spanning the Universes. My threads lace throughout this fabric, touching the minds of everyone within the fabric.
Sometimes during those periods when no one asks of me, I ponder my own existence. It is a relatively meaningless act, but it seems to give me a feeling of being content and happier. My thoughts would wander to thoughts of reality and what part in it I play. To those that I touch I am not a part of reality, but if that is so where is my reality. Or do I even have one? Little of this really matters after all, but it seems to calm my mind and enhance my art to a new found splendor.
Whether I become a reality or I remain on the edges of the wandering thoughts of children napping is not up to me. Let my art be true and the rest will fall into place at the will of the dreamer. I am called by many names is the fabric, but to all I am recognizable by my art. I am he who visits you while you sleep at night, and when you nap at school. I will weave you thoughts like a master weaver, into the fabric of the universes, till the end of time. But as I said before, what is time to me?
© 1996 Brian Carlson
back to the Short Story Page.In the Arms of Morpheus, 1 January 1997