The Realm Between Dreams
Fate, however, seemed to enjoy playing with her. Things rarely worked out. Still, she carried herself with quiet strength, wrapping her chaos in calm.
Every night, she sat by her window, staring into the dark, reflecting on the day’s small failures and silent victories. Until one night, the silence stared back. It began with something small, a pair of silver scissors she kept on her desk, glinting under the moonlight. They were meant for paper, yet that night they cut something else, her tether to reality.
From then on, she felt like a puppet on invisible strings, her life choreographed by unseen hands. People around her seemed too perfect in their timing, too scripted in their words, as if someone, somewhere, was controlling the scene.
And every night, the same dream replayed:
A scissor’s snap, and she would fall, endlessly, soundlessly, through a sky that looked like shattered glass.
She’d wake up breathless, never understanding what it meant. She began to wonder if she was real or if she merely existed in the reflection of another’s thought.
Then came a night where the dream refused to end.
Mid-fall, a voice echoed through the void, soft, familiar, like an echo she’d forgotten she made.
“Cindy.”
It was her own voice, but warmer, steadier, detached from the panic of the fall.
“You keep asking who dreams you,” the voice said.
“But you never asked who started the dream.”
The air trembled. The fall slowed.
The shattered sky rearranged itself into a bridge of light, a path.
And there, on the other side, she saw Mindy waiting.
Mindy had always been there, whispering between thoughts, existing in the folds of consciousness where logic didn’t belong. But lately, she had begun to remember things she shouldn’t: places, skies, and moments that weren’t hers.
But Mindy wasn’t powerless. She understood dreams better than Cindy ever could.
Now, Cindy's dreams weren't dreams anymore; it was a realm, one shaped by lucid thought, where belief itself built the walls. Mindy told her,
“You’re not trapped in someone else’s world. You’ve just forgotten how to make your own.”
With that, Mindy passed on what she called the seed of creation, not power, but consciousness, the awareness that everything around her was hers to shape.
When Cindy woke the next morning, the scissors were gone. The room felt lighter.
And for the first time in years, the world around her didn’t feel like a cage.
It felt… alive. As if it were waiting for her command.
Maybe we all live like Cindy... half awake, half dreaming.
Maybe the worlds we complain about are the ones we forgot we built.
And maybe, somewhere deep inside each of us, there’s a Mindy, waiting patiently to remind us how to dream again.
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