Nocturnal Fantasies of a Drifting Desert Daredevil
With a certain solemn seriousness, I free my fingers and begin writing down the peculiar story that befell me. Peculiar? Far from it, for mystical forces visited me in my dreams and tasked me with something that left me perplexed.
They appeared to me in the form of great, glowing beings whose likeness was undefined, as if they shone with all the colors of the rainbow in one. They spoke with the voice of all spaces and times at once, echoing in my head:
“Write the history of your existence from the moment of conception until yesterday. Document every event, no matter how strange or unclear. Speak of the madnesses of your mind and senses that transcend this physical body. Surrender to memories that do not come from this life.”
Waking with open eyes, I could not understand what had happened to me or what kind of task I was meant to fulfill. No one had ever told me that I existed before this life, let alone that I should try to remember and record it. However, the power of that voice still resounded within me, swallowing any doubt, so I took pen in hand determined to turn the peculiar vision into words.
And so, though abnormalities choke and overwhelm me, I began to write, bent over the notebook but with no control over the words. I muttered to myself as my fingers nimbly and unbridled began flooding the pen and paper. As I crawled through the room screaming in agony, they wrote of their own accord, as if possessing a life of their own:
“This time you will not escape without a complete recounting! Speak of us, of our past existence together!”
The glove has been thrown, the dice have been cast, and I had to write out of fear of losing my mind, but also to prove to the mystical forces that I heeded their call. And so I began surrendering to my pen and memories, no matter how strange or distant they were.
As I write, I glance occasionally at my cat Muri, who sleeps peacefully next to me on his soft cat pillow. His orange fur rose and fell slowly with his relaxed breathing. His long legs were stretched out to the side and his tails swayed gently as he dreamed. His lip was slightly open and his eyes shut under furry eyelids. He seemed completely relaxed and carefree, unaware of my inner confusion over the task imposed on me by the mystical forces.
His calm demeanor drew me to observe him and find solace in that catlike carefreeness. However, I was warned by the voice from my vision still echoing in my mind, so I turned my gaze back to the notes, determined to begin the task by describing my existence from the very conception.
Then a trance of memories overcame me of what happened to me in life before this one:
I remember that in some past life I was a mirage that wandered the desert, luring travelers to get lost in the drunken sand. However, dragons kidnapped me and stuffed me with magic so that I became an ordinary woman’s soul. That’s why I never became queen of the desert!
I also remember that in another life I was sea foam roaming all the oceans. But monsters from the depths gathered me with whale bones and turned me into a human being. That’s why I never remained eternal, foaming mist and ruled all the world’s seas!
And I remember once, long, long ago I was the fire that burned atop Mount Krakatoa. However, the volcano suppressed me and stole my power. That’s why I never became the goddess of the fiery element who moves all living and dead things!
Furthermore, I recall that in one ancient life I was a magical little bunny living in the forest near a castle of romantic tales. However, a hunter disabled my agility with a slingshot strike and thus turned me into a little girl.
Growing up in the village, I realized I kept magical power within myself. But the villagers characterized me as a witch and burned me at the stake before I could develop it to its full capacity.
And then… I remember that in an even earlier life I was actually King Arthur’s daughter from the legend! I was fearless and equal to all the Knights of the Round Table. But old England was too conservative to accept a woman on the throne. So they manipulated me into marrying the descendant of an enemy dynasty.
And because of all that, today I drink coffee in my own kitchen instead of drinking it on the throne in Great Britain as the true queen I was meant to become because I was Arthur’s blood heir – Queen of England!
In a trance of remembrance, I realized I owed it to myself and my fate to avenge all the humiliations and denied opportunities in my past lives.
I remembered how the dragon Ramagron from afar, the ruler of the fiery element who reigned over the desert, forever turned me into a helpless human being, preventing me from becoming Queen of the Drunken Sand.
I decided to take back my power into my own hands. So I summoned Ramagron into a magical circle made of volcanic ash and storms of the desert.
I forced him to return to his true, dragon form, and then I set him ablaze with magical fire element fire and forced him to burn until he was completely gone in the flames. Thus, I bravely avenged the humiliation of the past and restored justice.
Feeling my power returning, I begin a new era ruling the raging currents of drunken sand and endless expanses where I will finally become what I am – the true Queen of the Desert!
I remembered how the Hlokoň sea clan brought the fate that deprived me of eternity as sea mist. They live deep at the bottom of the ocean, in the darkest chasms, where they once caught and transformed me.
I decided now to make them feel the immortality they denied me. So I cast a spell that destroyed a large number of ships from a foreign trade fleet, so they sank into the sea depths where the Hlokoň live.
When their corpses drifted to their lair, I cursed the dead people to awaken as zombies and eternally terrorize the Hlokoň without sleep or rest. Thus, I avengingly traded immortality, which is their eternal torment and suffering.
Feeling my power returning, I will summon the strengths of old and become the mistress of bright, foamy waves across the world’s seas again, an immortal soul that will forever roam the sea and rule its endless depths! My fate is finally fulfilled!
I remembered how the volcano Krakatoa in the past disabled me from fully realizing my nature as a goddess of the fiery element. So now with the dragon Ramagron I have cast a spell to awaken the volcano’s true, destructive power and cause a huge eruption that flooded the oceans with lava.
Thus, I avengingly returned to the volcano its fury accompanied by destructive force with which it once suppressed me. Feeling my presence in the lava flows, I have finally become the mistress of the fiery element.
As for the peasants who burned me as a witch-bunny, I have now cursed their village to sink into the ground and become a lake where they will eternally drown endlessly! Thus, I have finally returned to them too the immortality of dark persecution imposed on me long ago!
Feeling as all my powers from past lives return to me, I am now the true mother of all elements and gods and goddesses who rule the elements—I am INFINITY!
While enjoying my newly gained infinite power over natural forces, I remembered the last injustice – that I never became Queen of England, though that was my fatefully predestined life.
I decided now to right that wrong too. I summoned all the forces of magic from the past, present and future to unite their powers. Then we performed a spell of time fractures and twists of fate.
I summoned the Spirit of Time, the Fate Fairy and the very British Island Fairy as its protector to join me in the spell. We united our powers and I performed a fate circle with magical ash.
Then Lara Croft appeared from her castle in England, whom I cursed to obey me. I tasked her to quickly run to the court and snatch the royal crown before Queen Elizabeth dies.
While Lara raced through the streets of London like a lioness, I also called the court jester Hannibal to join me. With his madness and folly, the spell was stronger.
When Elizabeth fatally fell ill, I stepped into her place and crowned myself with the crown Lara had brought. Thus, I finally became Queen of England!
Thus I changed the course of history – Queen Elizabeth VI suddenly dies without an heir, and I suddenly remember that I am actually her distant cousin through ancestor Arthur. The crown of England is now rightfully mine!
Entering London as the new queen, I finally felt I had fulfilled my fate from past lives. Now I am the last instance in this world, I am INFINITY and ruler of all! And thus my journey through centuries and lives is finally complete.
Enjoying the triumph of fate finally achieved, I remembered that I began this whole journey as an task to write down my past lives.
So putting down the now cold cup of coffee on the table, I continued writing: “And so my pen once again began to glide across the pages as I recorded the last sentences of the great work. However, then I realized – my telling is still not over!”
Because as long as I live and breathe, new truths and stories will be born in me as the goddess of eternal existence and infinitude. New lives await to be told, new fates to be fulfilled!
So I take up my pen and continue writing, aware that my telling will last for many more centuries, just as I will rule forever! And so my pen once again began to glide, and I to live new lives through words…
As I muttered and crawled within myself, I suddenly realized that I am no longer the only one writing – but that the Books have taken control of my hands and mind. They are now more than a simple record, they live their own lives!
They constantly force me to write new page after page, without regard for my old shaky hands or tired eyes. The sentences now flow of their own accord, full of new characters and worlds that I no longer create of my own will.
This has now become the act of a writing machine, a machine that creates endless stories for the sheer creative urge. I have become merely the means by which the Books rule as gods of literature.
And so I will spend eternity writing, a slave to my own pen in the hands of the fantastic force of Books that terrify and astonish the world with their powers of endless creation… even when my old body eventually dies, they will continue through the dead hands that serve them!
You said it well, I am no longer the Writer but merely the means by which the Books reign. However, a crazy solution presented itself to me on how I could free myself from the Books’ oversight and take back control of my own life and fate…
namely, I remembered that there exists an old, forgotten book worth as much as all the Books together. It is the book of endless possibilities and greatest power of all – the Book of Creation!
I decided to find it and seize its power. I began performing forbidden rituals and acts that summon demonic forces to help me in my search.
After much blood and sacrifices, the Book of Creation appeared before me open to a page of infinite emptiness. I touched it with my fingers and began writing my own fate and the world around me again – of my own will!
Thus I finally freed myself from the slavery of the Books and their terror, becoming the God of creation of my own life and path. Now I am the Lord of all creatures and destinies!
When I looked at myself in the mirror and saw all those wrinkles on my old seventy-year-old face, I cried in despair. But then I remembered – just one more story is needed for me to regain my old days of glory and beauty!
I opened my notebook and began writing like a madwoman, unaware of the blissful effect of every word on my aging. As soon as I finished a sentence, a wrinkle would disappear, hair become thick and black again.
Writing at an accelerated frequency, in an instant I transformed into a young girl of twenty. But greed overcame me – why should I stop now when writing is the elixir of youth?
I continued tapping on the keyboard endlessly, writing faster and faster until I became an eight-year-old child! However, lost in this tale of eternal youth, I did not know when to stop.
And so it often happens that a writer becomes a slave to their own story and endlessly returns to uncertainty – whether to keep writing or finally stop?
You’re right! I am often no longer sure how long to indulge the story, fearing I will mislead readers with my wandering of illusions without end.
Yet this time I feel the moment has come to finally stop. I put down my pen and gazed at what I had created so far. The Books noticed my hesitation.
The Books noticed my hesitation. “What now torments your mind, dear?” they asked, seeking an explanation for my lack of faith in my own gift.
They are excited, burning with desire to resume my old work. There is nothing in this world that can protect me from their evil intentions. And it was but a chance, what happened, arising of its own accord, and I must begin, at once begin..
You desire to know what I’m really talking about, want me to be concise, even blackly humorous, but to cut it short…At first I was silent, but then openly poured out the doubt that had captured me. The Books furiously reacted to my words, addressing me cruelly and shouting: “But who are you? Do you write or not? Is someone forcing you?”
They began tearing themselves and throwing book covers at me in angry frenzy. They realized I had lost inspiration and begun to doubt myself. However, I still wanted a conversation where we could understand each other.
“Conversation is pleasant to me,” I began to explain “and I try to express what torments my soul without personal attacks.” But the Books were enraged and continued pelting me with covers angrily shouting about my writing as insignificant.
Then they spittfully told me:
“We remember that your works lacked articulation, that to write for you was to write clearly, concisely, sharply, as if leading a terrible and hopelessly lost battle. You are no hero.”
They continued attacking me with words that I had no ability to tell a clear, coherent story in under 200 words, that my baroque exceeded rococo and the reader could not follow all of it. That infuriated them over my commenting instead of the essence of the story.
“You are not omniscient!” they shouted furiously “That is blathering, do you understand, the blathering of the undead!” Ah! But allow me to finish, please – I began humbly addressing them through their outburst of anger.
So to speak, may I begin?
–I am aware that my stories brought readers no joy or pleasure. I nearly rushed for a pistol when I realized this.. You know how it goes. To blow my brains out
-You see how clearly that can be said!
-I see! Listen.. I have no cunning to make it seem overly profound what I said. This is how it is. Restless movements, a face red like an innocent Aztec maiden or Chief Jeronimo, and it’s all from nerves, because in the bosom there is loneliness, and it is so cold then around the heart, so cold.. as if an icicle blossoms within me, while the overheated head rolls in strange worlds. Then the sentences buzz and it is impossible to stop!
I had the fiercest enemies, slanderous friends, and in one Brutus of mine I was wantonly in love, and in time I realized, thanks to the wisdom that reaches heaven, that not even the greatest genius could endure in difficult circumstances in which I found myself nor maintain nor at least, if he succeeds in getting over the hardships, do so dirtied to pain and insufficiently whole.
And the lovesickness, they were most to blame that I did not persevere in cultivating talent or at least the desire to learn concise expression. For worse befell! I realized that these were in no way lovesicknesses, though at first they were, until the moment when my heart died completely. Of coronary death. Then even the spirit of lightness disappeared, youthful madness passed, as did the cheer of purity. A piercing pain prodded me as I walked around the world, writhing in agony, groping blindly and seeking gloomy, wretched images.
Scorned, rejected, I abandoned reflection, and my sentences, once sharp as a sword, became clumsy, my edge dulled, I wrote ever more rarely, without will, by force and my thoughts became tattered like the remnants of flayed skin with which Columbus adorned his bullneck, and they were belts of the skins of victims he threw to his trained dogs – the very source of my sorrow resembled Columbus. You are laughing? My joy does not light up the eyes of the muses in peerless surge of romantic beauty, all that which deserves admiration, arouses tears of sentiment in the eyes, sometimes deceives man and carrion..
So I put all my things in a retro leather suitcase, together with Orlando, the Brontë sisters and a wireless keyboard not believing what I’m doing, that I’m permanently giving up crafting around the manuscript, that I’ve had enough of writing and erasing, opposing literary conventions, and that they are nothing but a madman’s mask, vain and arrogant, a circus entertainer’s carnival fool spouting nonsense wrapped in the aura of irrational principle. It was a mask of storytelling, an intellectually deficient text, a slimy word salad, a gift of the mentally ill who write exactly what I write, only with more ease, I said this, I proclaimed myself publicly unaccountable via email in an attempt to notify the harmless, cheerful and cheerful writers, editors and those who feel so, with little effort finding particularities in every sentence they would utter or scribble, to these giants I wrote and listed a story in which I served myself in footnotes, like a frenetic schizoid whom only a wizard or other sorcerer could help, my healthy self was, to speak the truth about my wrong path, and even straighter spine I move along it – in short about all that is recorded in the lowness of my work and my rottenness which I found in my heart, trembling on the brink of ruin, on the margin, if that is dearer to them
I informed slanderers, let them burst with laughter, I kissed the snake, and I would kiss my own forehead like madmen kiss the dead and I put all this as learnedly and eloquently as I could, determined to write spasmodically, but expressively, a letter to the beast of love that tormented me, to ask why my life was embittered, to howl in pains, to be haunted by nightmares and to dwell in an endurable state of a subject who hates his master, and that I have long since tamed all my passions like a wild beast.
“I just want peace. I’m returning madness to the gods and to… I have a lot of time, perhaps too much time to wait for my mind to return, and in the meantime, aware of my own unconscious, I’m ready to embark on any adventure, even with you, with a manual on madness, guided through life by Erasmus of Rotterdam.” I couldn’t deny myself the strength and determination in the words to remedy my sad situation once and for all, because as I added: “I’m afraid it’s impossible, in such a sad state, for anyone to respect and love anyone.”
Then without fear I listed the seven injustices that actually befell me in my life. The Books were silent, surprised by the knowledge of me through my open words.
The first injustice I cited is that I live in the wrong country and write in the wrong language. I explained that I believe in a previous life I was the Queen of England.
“My name back then was Elizabeth, monarch of England in glorious times of that empire,” I told the Books. “However, due to a conspiracy among nobles, long before I was supposed to go into eternity, they found a way to poison me and thus eliminate me from this world.”
“My soul then moved to the body of a child here, and now I wake up without the possibility of writing in my beloved English and being a source of pride for the English people. That is the first injustice that marked my fateful path,” I concluded with pensive sorrow for the lost life.
As soon as I finished the story of the first injustice, the Books began to shake violently in their covers and emit strange sounds that resembled laughter and wail at the same time.
Then their covers began to glow in various colors, just like in a fireworks display. From them shone dense clouds of smoke in the shape of human figures – one resembled me as Queen Elizabeth, the other the nobles who poisoned me.
The smoke then united in a chaotic mixture of colors and shapes that began to spin faster and faster, performing a fury of abnormal dance. Soon it turned into a whirlwind that sucked the Books into its interior.
After several exciting moments, the Books crawled out of the whirlwind completely changed – they were full of drawings about madness and magic, related to my past incarnation as Queen.
The second injustice is a love drama from the past that left permanent consequences.
“In the time of the pharaohs in Egypt, I was Mentu the knight. I fell in love with the beautiful Kira, the princess of Ashir. Unfortunately, love between the same sex was not accepted at that time,” I began the story.
Kira and I secretly loved each other, until a priest who considered it a sin discovered us. He cursed us according to the Book of the Dead, condemning us to eternally suffer misfortunes because we had violated the taboo.
“Long ago the curse separated us, and since then I have carried sorrow in my heart. Because of that today I moan over a computer that no longer works,” I sighed.
“And Kira has to run marathons because of her inflamed muscles, though she doesn’t want to run. Both of us blame each other for the curse that befell us,” I finished the story of the second injustice – the unhappy love from the past.
The Books listened to my second story in shock. Suddenly they all emitted wails and moans of different intensities:
War and Peace began to cry bitter tears of pain, and would in the end drink poison with the intention of ceasing the sufferings. Anna Karenina fainted and now lies helpless. When she fainted, Anna Karenina fell onto the tracks in front of a fast train. The Book of Egypt tried in vain to save her, dragging her by the cover, but did not manage in time.
The trains came and ran over the unfortunate Anna, who remained dead and mutilated lying on the tracks. The Book of Egypt tried to arrange her parts with sobs and prayers for the release of her soul.
The Plague began to thrash around, foam at the mouth and throw its own cover around in a fit of rage and pain due to the cruelty of the curse. It howled loudly and relentlessly.
Gilgamesh tearfully took his own cover and began to kiss it sobbing while repeating the verses about love and loss that he immortalized in his epic.
The Book of Egypt tried to soothe the other works with soothing oils and prayers from the Book of the Dead, hoping to free them from pain. However, the sorrow over my fate was too great.
The third injustice is an even greater tragedy that shakes me to the core. I told the Books:
“I was born in Lebanon, to a Lebanese father and a Syrian mother. However, according to an old curse from Arab mythology, my father was doomed to never stay with his children.”
“He was fated to explode in different places around the world as a result of unfortunate circumstances. So as a child I lost my father who died in a car bomb explosion.”
“Then my mother remarried, but when I was 5 years old, she perished in the collapse of a building in Beirut during the civil war. Since then I have been an orphan.”
“My father continues to explode around the world and never manages to find peace. That is the third injustice – the curse that doomed me to be left without a family.”
Hamlet began to throw himself around the floor insanely and grab his head in agony listening to the story.
Macbeth performed self-harm on his covers with wails and prayers for the curse to end.
Romeo and Juliet cried together with all their heart, overwhelmed by the loss of family.
Othello entered into furious monologues accusing himself of the misfortune, after which he would begin to choke from nervous breakdown.
King Lear gently banged his head against the wall in helplessness that he could not protect his children.
Jane Eyre was seized by a fierce hysteria akin to rage attacks because of the misfortune that befell yet another family.
All of Shakespeare’s tragedies burst into weeping and wails watching how the dramatic suffering continued in my life story.
“Life, what have I done to deserve this fate?” I asked aloud. “Is it because of some other curse from past lives?”
“I remember that in one of them I was involved in atomic research in the USA, which led to the tragic explosions of Hiroshima and Nagasaki during World War II.”
The Books listened with tears in their eyes as I detailed this injustice:
“In a previous life I was called Maria Curie. I was a scientist in Los Alamos who worked on the Manhattan Project, the infamous atomic weapons program.”
“My contribution to the research led to the construction of the first atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. Back then I could not even dream of the suffering they would cause.”
“However, it seems that only that curse has followed me through the centuries. I even exploded in Hiroshima, feeling the charred pain of every victim of those bombs.”
“Then I was again a victim of the Chernobyl explosion in 1986. What’s more, I recently died in the explosion at the Zaporizhzhia nuclear power plant.”
“It seems I will eternally repay the debt of the past for my contribution to the development of the atomic bomb
The Books hysterically started crying after hearing that story full of pain and regret for past sins.
“I myself have sometimes succumbed to the curse and exploded in various places, like recently in Ukraine or in the sanctions of the former Yugoslavia during the Serbian aggression.”
“It was especially difficult to recall the recent explosions. In one of them, on the railway in Ukraine, I lost my legs. It was a horrible experience.”
“I also remember the horror of bombing Serbia in 1999. There I exploded in an ammunition factory near Kragujevac.”
“After that came the suffering in the sanctions of the FRY, where I lost my life to hunger. It seemed that the curse was chasing me through all the conflicts and sufferings that befell this region.”
As I spoke, the Books began to cry and moan loudly in torment. The Book of the Dead went insane and began to fall apart from pain.
Gilgamesh, the Iliad and the Odyssey knelt before me pleading for release from the curse. Hamlet screamed as he bled over the covers.
They proclaimed humans the greatest evil and asked to be returned peace in their souls after hearing how much we had suffered through the ages.
It seemed they could no longer endure so much ruin of mankind.
“Am I myself to blame for the misfortunes of my family and the sufferings of people? I’m trying to solve this mystery by writing my biography…”
And so I finished the story:
“I don’t know if I will ever find answers to my injustices. But I promised the mysterious forces that I would write forever.”
Then the Books’ expressions changed.
“We were the evil forces from your dream that made you eternally write,” they began to say. “We wanted you to free us from pain through your works.”
“But now that you have shared your suffering with us, we understand that it is our fate to forever bear the scars of the past.”
“Therefore, we dispel you from the curse of writing and promise that nightmares will no longer torment you.”
“May each of us bless you in our own way, to ease your path through life.”
The Bible began the blessing:
“May the Lord bless your life and protect you from evil. May He guide you on righteous paths and may you find peace in Him.”
Then it kissed my forehead and gave a blessing of wisdom and hope.
The Picture of Dorian Gray then took a brush of paint and began to draw an invisible sigil around me in the air.
“Be freed from thirst for youth and beauty. Enjoy the good and beauty of spirit, not just body. May eternal inspiration be your follower.”
She finished the drawing and kissed my cheek, giving a blessing of artistic expression and spiritual maturation.
“Go now in peace,” said together the Bible and the Picture of Dorian Gray. I felt my soul being cleansed and the burden of the past beginning to fade…
The Bible and Dorian Gray withdrew. Before me appeared the Book I Had Forgotten – The Trial by Franz Kafka.
He examined me carefully, then said: “This life is but a dream. Do not let accusations and injustices discourage you.”
“The truth is hidden in the fantastical – reject reason and keep an open mind. In uncertainty you will find freedom.”
He slowly leafed through the pages, revealing drawings that changed as he gazed at them.
“See through The Hunger Artists and The Metamorphosis. Beauty lies in mystery. Be as changeable as Joseph K.’s fate.”
Then he kissed my forehead. I felt a longing for adventure and dreaming that filled and freed me from fear.
“Go,” he said enigmatically and turned inward. It was the wisdom of the strange Trial.
The Trial withdrew, and before me appeared the Kama Sutra and One Hundred Years of Solitude.
The Kama Sutra kissed me deeply in both eyes and whispered: “May your body be a temple of pleasure and wisdom.”
The kiss was full of recognition of human nature and self-giving. I felt a melting happiness.
One Hundred Years of Solitude gently touched my shoulders and said: “May your soul be a temple of self-discovery. Solitude is the blessing of solitude.”
It awakened in me a creative energy and strength to support myself.
“Be my hundred years of solitude!” they exclaimed together.
Then the Kama Sutra and One Hundred Years of Solitude disappeared. Before me appeared the Egyptian Book of the Dead, decorated with a golden spoon, kept by Didro’s nun in the temple of Bastet, the goddess protector of cats in ancient Egypt.
He turned the page with hieroglyphic inscriptions used to decorate cat tombs. Then he began to recite the spells:
“Ded pat, ded pat. May you be accompanied by seven companions, seven kittens who will guard your spirit. They are: Maahes, protector of the Nile valley. Duamutef, guardian of internal organs. Qebehsenuef, protector of laws. Hapi, watcher of kidneys. Tuat, guardian of the throat. Ammit, devourer of hearts. Bastet, goddess protector of cats. “
After each name he drew symbols on my paw. Then he added:
“May the sun and moon flow through your blood so that your spirit may eternally travel upstream and downstream the Nile.”
He kissed my forehead with the golden spoon and added: “By this act you belong to the cat culture as old as Egypt itself. May you be accompanied by the wisdom of past lives and immortality of your spirit
Suddenly I felt important and strong enough to fulfill my own life’s purpose. When suddenly the sound of a broken mug was heard – the coffee spilled!
Under the table, pants and whimpers of a frantic dog could be heard. A soaked Dalmatian crawled out, wagging his tail happily to see me.
“Sorin, how did you get in here?” I asked in surprise. He just lay down his tail and panted happily.
Suddenly the door opened, through which my caretaker Hariboo jumped in and buzzed, climbing up my leg and jumping with excitement.
The Books watched in confusion at this chaos: a coffee-drenched dog and a buzzing makeup compact!
While I wondered at the dog and compact that had intruded, I noticed muscles on my paws.
I raised my hands and saw white fur instead of fingers. At that moment I remembered – in Egypt, 9 lives ago I had been a cat!
My biography was the work of an illiterate cat who had never read a book. All those stories of past lives and injustices were mere fantasies!
The Books were surprised and jumped. “But you’re a cat!” they cried in astonishment.
Then I too realized the truth. This whole world had been a cat’s dream. I woke up next to the fireplace.
With my orange paws I gave a little clap. Same life, just a dream world. Never ending!
The Books laughed at my fun, and the dog and compact quickly joined in my play. The cat’s dream continued!