by Gold Baron
You toss and turn in your sleep, the sheets on your bed wet with cold sweat and tangled in a knot about your legs. Your breathing comes in labored gasps, and your face contorts under strain. You can see the images vividly in your mind, as though it was actually happening, but it's just a dream, a nightmare... or is it?
You find yourself standing in darkness, or were you floating? You hear a low rumble in your ears; are you underwater? A voice booms behind you. You turn slowly; you must be underwater. You paddle with your arms and legs, but to no avail; you seem to be turning against your will. A shiver runs down your spine as you see a horrid face, or rather a silhouette; it has no nose, no eyes, no hair. It's burned and scarred, as if licked by a horrible fire.
You fall back, faster now than before, and crawl across the ground to get away. You bump into something and tilt your head back to look up. You see a man standing over you now. His face looks to be about fifty, though relatively untouched by age. Streaks of gray mark his sideburns, and his eyes are soft and hazel, swirling with a life all their own. His face is filled with concern, like a father, and you feel somehow drawn to him, like you care for him, or is it pity?
He offers a hand, and you take it. He helps you to your feet. It isn't until now that you notice his garb, a highly polished suit of armor that shines brilliantly. At the same time, you notice there are no lights in this place, save the mysterious man. A red cape flows down his back and writhes about his feet, intricate vines of inlaid gold dance down his chest and his arms, and brilliant gold symbols shine on his shoulders and back. For a moment, the armor dulls and burnishes red like rust, and the man's once-brown hair becomes jet black, likewise his eyes, without pupil and cold. Lines of black cross down the red cape, which spreads like great wings about him, the black lines like bones in a wing, giving him a demonic appearance.
You close your eyes and shake the notion away. When you open them again, he is gone.
You look about wildly, a sense of fear creeping into you as blackness descends. You turn to find him a distance away behind you, shining brilliantly as before. He stares at the ground, and a troubled look crosses his face. His mouth is moving, and as you strain your eyes, turning your head, wonderful words flow into your mind like music:
I am Christopher Trinity, though you may call me the Gold Baron, if you like.
You breath in deep, but no air fills your lungs. You exhale with a long sigh, and your mind reels from the thought of no oxygen, but you feel fine. "Who are you? What are you doing here? Where am I?"
The voice is close now. You turn your head to find him standing much closer now on your right. What am I, you ask? A dream to some, a nightmare to others. Which I am to you is your own choice. I am here to answer your questions. As for your last question, we are here, in your own dreams.
"You mean I'm dreaming all of this? This isn't real? You aren't real? I'm going to wake up and forget all of this, right?" Your voice sounds meek and quiet when compared to his, fear creeping into your throat.
How would you define real? Is it what you can see, what you can feel, taste, smell? Is it emotion, love, and fear? You can feel all of those and more; your senses are as acute now as they are in the waking world. Does that make this real? Am I real, or am I your imagination? It's up to you to decide.
"What are you trying to prove here? Flesh and blood is real, my dog is real, this bruise on my arm is real, isn't it?" You begin to doubt even yourself. You watch a finely cut lash move down his face, from above his right eyebrow down his cheek to end on his upper lip; blood begins to flow from the laceration.
Is pain real, or is it simply an extension of the mind, of the imagination? Reality is an extension of the mind, what you perceive. But it goes beyond the simple senses.
The man appears behind you again, the cut gone from his face, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. The blackness lifts, and you find yourself on a surreal street corner. The man jumps lightly onto a lamppost and hangs by one hand.
When you can realize this fact, the horizons are limitless. The universe is a vast place; it has no bounds, an extension of the imagination. Is THAT real? Love, companionship, all extensions of the mind, yearnings of the human soul. Maybe man is unique in this fact, but he is blind to what is beyond the reach of his hand. You must be free to explore; free your mind! THAT is what's real.
"But that's impossible. The universe has to end. Man has to keep both feet on the ground."
The man floats down from the lamppost and draws out a sword from his back. It roars to life with a blue flame, and you hunch over in pain as your eyes burn and your ears bleed. Over the roar you hear the voice coming closer: Is this real, or are you going to tell me I can't hold a star in my hands? Reality is what you make of it; once you realize this, you can bend it on a whim.
Your skin bursts into flames and your clothes melt away as the blade passes through your body, shearing it in two.
You jump with a start to find yourself sitting up in bed in your room.