-A Dreamer's Death

[Words to Image. It's where I allow a random image to create its own story within me. It dictates and I type it. I hope you enjoy]

Sven stumbled upon a lost Mayan Book of Words while exploring the ruins of Belize. He quickly satcheled it and vowed to never tell a soul about the priceless find.

Once safe from prying eyes, he ventured inside, slowly turning each page, soaking in the ancient marvel of it. Having studied their history and culture extensively, he was able to roughly recognize and understand images and inscriptions. He spent hours within it, mesmerized.

And then he turned to a blank page. Interesting, he thought. Every page prior had been loaded with such knowledge and here was a blank sheet. He turned back one and re-read the words again. They had prompted him to be the author of his own future. He thought nothing of it until discovering the next wordless page.

He thought about the consequences of defacing such a rare artifact but felt a mighty pull on him. He ignored his better judgement and reached for a pen, fully believing in the mystical power of the people. There was a slight pause just before pen hit paper but once it did, he didn't hold back. He wrote in his wildest fantasies with a vengeance. Once he reached the end of the page, he sat it down in front of him and watched it come to life. The pages burst into flames, but he felt no heat. They danced about and ensnared him with images of what could be. He was hooked. The evening was spent lost within the flames, soaking in the wonders of what he saw.

The next morning, he returned to his book and quickly flipped to the page of dreams. But his words had disappeared. A quick flip back, a re-read of the prompt, the grabbing of his pen, and the flames returned. This time he wrote a new fantasy. There were new images, new feelings of desire, new sounds, new smells, new possibilities. Once again, he allowed the flames to take complete control of his thoughts. And his time.

Every day he would return to this page and write a new desire. And every day he would bask in what he saw.

Sven died one morning after writing. He had spent his last couple of years submersed in fantasy but had never turned to the next page. When the Book of Words fell into his lap and his lifeless hand slapped down on his leg, the wind from it caused the page to turn. His expired eyes never got to read the words. It translated ...

Now that you have petitioned your desired future, sign the line and it will come to pass.

Sven never took the next step. Sven never turned 'his' page.

(I dedicate this one to you, Beth. Thank you.)