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Stories such as these have no beginning and no end. Our worlds exist in symbiotic harmony. They breathe in tandem. Exhale. Inhale. Eternally balanced opposite the thin membrane of the human mind.
The realm of reality. It marches forward in strict time, disinterested almost in its inhabitants. It ticks in births and deaths, in sharp color and sharper blacks and whites. Creatures such as yourself traverse its solid terrain, create lives, build monuments and cities and societies and families in attempts to etch yourselves into the melody as it beats steadily on.
The world of dreams. So fleeting and malleable it must be reminded to exist by the creatures capable of traversing the depths of its emptiness, capable of forging something nonexistent, capable of shaking that nothingness to its core and sending ripples that reverberate so powerfully the realm of reality must shudder back in opposite wavelengths.
One rigid, one fluid.
Somewhere, nestled on the very precipice of reality, teetering precariously on the wavy outlines of dreams, another realm’s heart beats in syncopated time between both worlds – the Periphery. At its center towers the Inn. Here, the creatures of dreams phase into corporeal existence. They recover their vast power that has been spent crafting the dreams and imaginations of men.
An impossible building, its brilliant pagodas shoot into the sky, concealing many more floors and rooms than even the massive structure appears to hold. Whether it has a life of its own or its simply mimicking the pulse of its workers and guests remains to be seen. Manifested in all their glory, beauty, hideousness, power, majesty… the creatures of the dream world recuperate under the care of the Inn staff and its enigmatic owners – with powers and fantastic forms all their own.
You, little human, with your imagination so wild, your dreams so big; you’ve slipped. You’ve pressed your little nose up against the glass, and now it has shattered and you’ve tumbled in, fallen right through into a ripple of magic with no way to return. You’ve bumbled your little way into a place you were never meant to be… or… were you?
The realm of reality. It marches forward in strict time, disinterested almost in its inhabitants. It ticks in births and deaths, in sharp color and sharper blacks and whites. Creatures such as yourself traverse its solid terrain, create lives, build monuments and cities and societies and families in attempts to etch yourselves into the melody as it beats steadily on.
The world of dreams. So fleeting and malleable it must be reminded to exist by the creatures capable of traversing the depths of its emptiness, capable of forging something nonexistent, capable of shaking that nothingness to its core and sending ripples that reverberate so powerfully the realm of reality must shudder back in opposite wavelengths.
One rigid, one fluid.
Somewhere, nestled on the very precipice of reality, teetering precariously on the wavy outlines of dreams, another realm’s heart beats in syncopated time between both worlds – the Periphery. At its center towers the Inn. Here, the creatures of dreams phase into corporeal existence. They recover their vast power that has been spent crafting the dreams and imaginations of men.
An impossible building, its brilliant pagodas shoot into the sky, concealing many more floors and rooms than even the massive structure appears to hold. Whether it has a life of its own or its simply mimicking the pulse of its workers and guests remains to be seen. Manifested in all their glory, beauty, hideousness, power, majesty… the creatures of the dream world recuperate under the care of the Inn staff and its enigmatic owners – with powers and fantastic forms all their own.
You, little human, with your imagination so wild, your dreams so big; you’ve slipped. You’ve pressed your little nose up against the glass, and now it has shattered and you’ve tumbled in, fallen right through into a ripple of magic with no way to return. You’ve bumbled your little way into a place you were never meant to be… or… were you?
