A field filled with clouds; each and every one a representation of an external facet not currently present.
Yes, I am dreaming. A common scene lay before me, one I know all too well. This is the place where I began believing in a greater power.
That fateful day, one of anguish and inner turmoil that consequentially reflected into actualization in reality through my accumulated traumas.
Tis a story I do not want to delve into, at least so early on. For this is a tale of more than just that moment, despite that point certainly being the progenitor.
But could it really be called the progenitor, when the extent of the cursed bond between me and that person is just an eventual drop in the grand scheme of the totality of time and experience through consciousness.
My thoughts are starting to circle. This is a unique skill I have. My dreams bring me deep reflection, be it traumatizing, gentle, or otherwise. Figuring it's time to wake up, back to the regular Earth I know but certainly don't love, I begin the awakening ritual.
In order to awaken myself from my prophetic (so to speak) dreams, I must harm myself. If I had to guess, this requirement came about as a means of materializing the inner disarray my brings dream me, in a method of control and a forced slower pace.
Biting my thumb, I feel the skin break and the metallic taste of blood fills my oral senses. Almost like the come up of a psychedelic drug, the "reality" before me begins to fade in the most disorienting of ways. Kaleidoscope imagery, visual trails, the auras reflecting off of every color surrounding me. It all culminates into a deep shade of blue before expelling me into the outer world I am ever so used to.
At least that's what I had expected. However, it seems I'm in an unfamiliar environment. A dim, dusty cellar with but a single table and chair, besides the hay bedding beneath me. The hay bedding is among the first things I noticed, as it is remarkably uncomfortable.
Placed on the table is a lit candle. It saddens me to imagine the hypothetical of consciousness in such an inanimate object. A candle's sole sense is to rebel, either illuminating the dark or filling the room with scent. Although if it's the latter it's usually both. Either way, candles exist to rebel against the natural state of that which is around it. Almost like a human individualizing and refusing to bow to "eternal" rules crafted by the limited facets of man.
"I don't know where I am bro. It's seriously cramped in here too."
All of a sudden, in the midst of my daze, a voice peeks out from nearby. Realizing I had only, up to this point, looked to the front half of the room, I now shift my gaze behind me.
The first thing that stands out is the lavishly pristine white silk bedsheets adorning a grand mattress surrounded by a light blue canopy. Comparing this discovery to the hay mat below me, I'm quite pissed at the distinguishing of levels of treatment afforded to the both of us. However, I understand there is most likely a reason for this. Vowing to mentally settle this matter in a moment, I direct my attention to the girl. And that is where this story begins.