And the stairway wound on, landing followed by landing, not even a window or a lamp in sight, no air crept this far up the spire ….
Still she climbed on, ticket in hand, the snoring growing louder as each new span was conquered dizziness setting in, but determination overriding the effects.
Finally a landing led to a hallway, yet there were no doors cut into it’s walls: only more stairs at the opposite end… the snoring growing strangely fainter, yet even more distinct.
The stairs at the end of the hall led to yet another landing, more stairs, another landing, and ….. of course …. more stairs … but now the snoring was almost at her ear, deep, throaty, shuddery snores, the walls seeming to vibrate with each curt exhalation.
But upon this audible progress, a light could suddenly be seen peeking through the space under a door at the far end of a new and particularly narrow hallway.
She soon reaches this door, a knock, only to be greeted with silence. the snoring now pounding into the dimness.
But finally …. “Place your ticket under the door, please” a faint voice erupts from behind the door.
she does as instructed and can hear the floorboards creak under heavy, bare feet.
“Thank you” this person basically coughs and the bare feet pad away.
“But where do I go now?” she asks, but suddenly there is a second snore, even louder than the first, and in it’s volume, threatening to obscure her mission… In fact, a chorus of steady snores could now be heard, rattling the very walls.
Frustrated, she turns back down the hall, searching the uniform grey walls for doors or branching passageways, either obvious or hidden ….when, with a start, a door she could have sworn was not there a moment ago, creaked open ….. “Come on in. You’ve five minutes” an elderly yet strong voiced boomed into the stifling air of the hall.
And soon she was in a very dark room, lit only by a bedside oil lamp. The elderly man, in sleeping cap and pajamas, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“I’ve been asleep a thousand years and YOU believe you’ve every right to disturb my slumber?” he asks, lightening behind his otherwise calm eyes…. “A dream, a thousand years in the making, cannot simply be returned to by going back to bed. You do know this?” he roars.
“But how can you even dream", she asks, “if you’ve not lived for so many centuries in the waking world? What feeds this dream so long and rich?”
The old man snorts (old fuddie duddie) “But what does the waking world have to offer my sleep other than fodder to feed the very worst of nightmares?” ….."What wars, famine, and disease might pad my sweet, now departed, dream with even more contented wonder?”
“But what of love?” she asks “True love has not educated you on the pleasures of the waking world?”
And this questions she asks not with feigned sincerity, but rather bemused skepticism, because you see: she has not yet felt true love herself in her very few years compared to this sagging example of missed opportunity.
He laughs hard and free, shaking his head with a snort.
“Don’t you see, my dear? Love, as you put it, is exactly what sent me to such slumber in the first place! ….. “A broken heart beats much much easier under the soothing waves of sleep.”
Now it is she who laughs … “You silly old fool! What about love for the sky, and the ocean, for friends, and experience?” ….. “Surely your dream, as mighty it may be, can’t compensate” …. “And the love of a woman or the love of a man must only enrich these wonders"
Again he laughs … “Oh but it is those oceans, skies and experiences, which cannot compensate for what the universe within can provide ….. Colors the eye organ could never process in millions of evolutionary years are ours to behold as we snore away. Oceans hovering above oceans, stars exploding into ever expanding nights …. And maybe, just maybe, I still am asleep and you are here: a gift from the waking world, to show me this love you speak of?” The old man’s voice rose as he spoke until by the last words, he was shouting into the night.
But with this question the stereo chorus of snores from within the walls suddenly ceased, followed by angry grumbling, squeaking bed springs and, creaking floorboards. The hallway outside the room was now crowded with ceased snores, dreams stretching uncomputable centuries now unplugged like an old television sets put out on the sidewalk.
And with that, she was gone: the inquiring girl: ambassador of true love. Gone into one of the ever expanding nights of which he spoke …… And now, at the door, a chorus of angry rapping…..
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