odditycollector (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
odditycollector) wrote2003-10-07 07:32 pm
odditycollector) wrote2003-10-07 07:32 pm
Entry tags:
Procrastination.
I have about 4 midterms in the next ten days. But this was more fun.
Irene never dreamed, but one day she woke up knowing that her best friend was going to die.
“You shouldn’t go with your cousin today,” Irene said when they met. “Please. He’ll kill you if you do.”
“How positively scandalous,” said the other girl, who had been reading her mother’s Victorian novels. “Tomorrow I’ll tell your misfortune.”
They played hopscotch all evening, until a scowling young man shouted that it was time to come home.
“Don’t go with him.” Irene pleaded, but the other girl laughed and ran off.
When they found they body in an alleyway, Irene tried to feel shocked, but without much success. It never occurred to her to feel frightened.
About a year later, after falling asleep, Irene found herself walking through a desert. There was a man standing beside a dune, wearing a robe the same grey as the sand.
“Yes, you come to me now,” he said. “Welcome to my garden, Irene Adler.”
“Hello,” said Irene. “Am I dreaming?”
“No,” said the man. “To dream is to see things as they are not. This place is of all things that are, and were, and will ever be.”
“Oh,” said Irene, watching the sand drift away on a breeze. “Only, I think I am dreaming, because how else did I get here?”
He moved closer to her, and if he left any footprints behind him the wind wiped them away. “This is the place where all paths cross.” He stopped in front of her, and she had to tilt her head up to see his face. “There is a centre to every maze, and it is here,” he told her. “And some labyrinths are built into the mind.”
Irene thought about this, and was surprised to find she understood. “What’s in the book?” she asked.
The man frowned for a moment. He opened the book and stared at the page, and it seemed to Irene that he disapproved of what he read. “Yes,” he said. “I allow you to see.”
He held the book at her level and Irene looked at the page facing her.
Irene Adler stood in the garden of the first of the Endless, and read in his book the page beside his placemark. If, indeed, it could be said to be reading, for what was written in front of her was words beyond language, was knowledge beyond information. She read until the end of the page and then tried to turn it, but the paper was too heavy for her to shift; it was the wind moving around her that finally flipped it over. She read this page too, and the next, and the next, and as the pages tumbled faster and faster before her, she realized she might stay there her whole life and never reach the end.
When she awoke, Irene found herself still in her bedroom. All she had read in the book was heavy in her mind but already fading, for the human memory is an imperfect tool. She copied onto paper as much as she could, filling journal after journal with disjointed images and phrases and colours. When she was finished, Irene no longer had the sight to see what she had written, but in truth she had no need. For when she touched the people around her, it was as reading a book with letters as big as the world.
And the words were her own, and the name of the book was Destiny.
Irene never dreamed, but one day she woke up knowing that her best friend was going to die.
“You shouldn’t go with your cousin today,” Irene said when they met. “Please. He’ll kill you if you do.”
“How positively scandalous,” said the other girl, who had been reading her mother’s Victorian novels. “Tomorrow I’ll tell your misfortune.”
They played hopscotch all evening, until a scowling young man shouted that it was time to come home.
“Don’t go with him.” Irene pleaded, but the other girl laughed and ran off.
When they found they body in an alleyway, Irene tried to feel shocked, but without much success. It never occurred to her to feel frightened.
About a year later, after falling asleep, Irene found herself walking through a desert. There was a man standing beside a dune, wearing a robe the same grey as the sand.
“Yes, you come to me now,” he said. “Welcome to my garden, Irene Adler.”
“Hello,” said Irene. “Am I dreaming?”
“No,” said the man. “To dream is to see things as they are not. This place is of all things that are, and were, and will ever be.”
“Oh,” said Irene, watching the sand drift away on a breeze. “Only, I think I am dreaming, because how else did I get here?”
He moved closer to her, and if he left any footprints behind him the wind wiped them away. “This is the place where all paths cross.” He stopped in front of her, and she had to tilt her head up to see his face. “There is a centre to every maze, and it is here,” he told her. “And some labyrinths are built into the mind.”
Irene thought about this, and was surprised to find she understood. “What’s in the book?” she asked.
The man frowned for a moment. He opened the book and stared at the page, and it seemed to Irene that he disapproved of what he read. “Yes,” he said. “I allow you to see.”
He held the book at her level and Irene looked at the page facing her.
Irene Adler stood in the garden of the first of the Endless, and read in his book the page beside his placemark. If, indeed, it could be said to be reading, for what was written in front of her was words beyond language, was knowledge beyond information. She read until the end of the page and then tried to turn it, but the paper was too heavy for her to shift; it was the wind moving around her that finally flipped it over. She read this page too, and the next, and the next, and as the pages tumbled faster and faster before her, she realized she might stay there her whole life and never reach the end.
When she awoke, Irene found herself still in her bedroom. All she had read in the book was heavy in her mind but already fading, for the human memory is an imperfect tool. She copied onto paper as much as she could, filling journal after journal with disjointed images and phrases and colours. When she was finished, Irene no longer had the sight to see what she had written, but in truth she had no need. For when she touched the people around her, it was as reading a book with letters as big as the world.
And the words were her own, and the name of the book was Destiny.