The sun’s arm-like rays have just begun to lazily stretch above the light trees that line Marble Dale Park. As you walk the paths, a cool morning breeze carries the scents and sounds of that tranquil place as it gently ruffles your hair. The sound of the wind through the bows of trees captures your attention briefly, but a glint of dancing light in the distance pulls you from that trance. Always one to satisfy your curiosity and feeling the overwhelming sense of peace within the Park, you begin walking in the direction of the object. As it comes into clear view, you see a plain parchment wafting in the wind as it reflects the light of the rising sun. It looks only slightly weathered though it has one rough edge as if it were torn from a larger volume. Though a small portion was lost to the tear, you can clearly read the remaining inscription:
aluated and reconsidered many observations during my brief time in this “existence”, and
ith mixed feelings that I have finally concluded that there is no such thing as death, life is
ly a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Or more accurately that reality is the
gination of my consciousness. In my recent search for absolutes, I have found only one and that
I exist. This and this alone can I say with all certainty, and all else is speculation which
rely assumes the truth or falsity of subsequent presuppositions. What if I were in another dream
lity before I awoke in the wooden box? What if I am
The writing ends seemingly in mid thought, and it isn’t until you’ve read the final statement several times that you get the feeling that you’re no longer alone.
The man before you walks with an air of confidence but not arrogantly so. His clothes are woven of fine fabrics and flow easily in the morning breeze. His garments have been fashioned in such a way so as to make it difficult to discern where one begins and another ends, each moving in tandem and creating a beautiful scene as the patterns run one into another. A large but not overwhelming book is nestled under one arm, and even as he regards you, the man’s face wears an expression that can only be defined as captivated. He looks through you and not at you as if his mind is attending to matters elsewhere. You stand motionless for a brief moment and can plainly see the man’s attention come back to the immediate situation as his eyes shift from yours to the parchment at your fingertips. As he focuses on the paper his face lights up with acknowledgment, and as if he had just noticed you the man says with an amazed exclamation, “Oh! I do believe that belongs to me. Hrmph, how rude of me, I apologize, my name is Wynken. Wynken Vanaril. Pleased to meet you. However, I would appreciate it if I could have that back.”
A smile cracks his thin lips as he finishes and regards you fully once more. He obviously awaits your response…
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