the murky miasma of the dream-world

I am trekking across a floor of glass that stretches over a dark abyss that has the sensation of no bottom. I can’t clarify how I know that the vastest sprawl of nothingness spreads beneath my feet, but I have never been more certain of anything. The journey is treacherous because the glass is polished to a slippery sheen and dangerously thin. One false move, one wrong step, and the glass will shatter and I’ll begin tumbling through the dark void. If that happens, I know I’ll panic and desperately claw at the edge, but the broken glass will cut me open and my blood will colour the glass slick and ominous. I’ll plummet into oblivion, and the shards will cut me up along the way until there’s nothing left of me, until I’ve bled out and my pale shell continues wafting through the nothingness, eternally searching for peace and wholeness. Such a fate terrifies me and I seek to avoid it at all costs. So I continually struggle, tiptoeing across my existence, the only one I know, maintaining some kind of tenuous hold on the oily glass surface and pray that the foundation will hold. Pray that my sanity will keep me on this side of the abyss. I am Prometheus, eternally struggling against my fate, dreading it, avoiding it, yet realizing the resistance may be a worse fate than giving in to the inevitable engulfing by the thick black abyss. Suddenly, in my desperation, I fall and I hear the glass crack, feel the sharp glass penetrate my skin and I’m sinking. But it’s water beneath me, not air. It’s still dark, thick almost, like oil, but I’m still sinking and I can see and taste and smell my blood staining the water red. This can’t be happening. I have to get out; I have to find the glass floor...