Hold up a second. All of this is in my head. Only things I’m thinking. At least I think it is. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, what exactly is reality anyway outside of pure thought. Memory? I mean, sure, we might live in the present, but really, we’re just remembering things as they happen. Everything we experience…it’s just memory.
And if we can consider all of that true, then what is the difference between reality and fiction? I can remember a story that I read almost as well as I can remember my own personal history. And if I’m able to place myself in the position of the main character of the story, then, well, I mean, wouldn’t that reality be just as real as real reality?
And so, taking that further, what I’m experiencing now, being inside my own story, well, that’s just simply my own thought experiment being taken a little further than expected and becoming my current reality.
And with all of that in mind, I should simply be able to get out of this story by determining my reality to be the one that I was in before I arrived in my own tale.
Or…could I make my reality even better than the one I started out with? Instead of being some shlub working at a desk at a job that’s okay, but not exactly one where I’m appreciated, where I find myself wishing I had more time to write and more recognition for my artistic abilities, I could be all those things. Heck, I could just choose to be rich and living somewhere sunny and warm all the time where the babes in bikinis flow like the legendary milk and honey of the promised land.
Actually…the phrasing on that last statement could have been a lot better.
Ugh…now I’ve got the entirely wrong image in my head.
Damn, this whole reality thing has got me really hung up now. I mean, if I can truly make my reality whatever I want it to be, then why in the world have I had it be such a lame thing for so long? Lame’s probably not the best term. Sure, I’ve got it pretty good. I live comfortably. I’ve got an amazing wife and kids. Heck, I even love the farm most of the time, even if it’s exhausting. And in Wisconsin…
And, actually, writing as a career sounds terrifying. At least with my current state of fame, I can write whatever I want without any real expectations.
Like this weird story.
That I really should get back to.
Because, well, I guess even though I think I know how to get out of it, I kinda feel like I should ride it out to completion.
No one likes a half-finished story.
Even if it will never see the light of day.
Even if it doesn’t make a lick of sense.
Even if it’s already gone so far off the rails I can’t understand how a single person would ever want to read it.
Even if–
“Hey,” Jessica said, snapping her fingers in front of Adam’s face, “are you alive in there?”
“Oh, crap, yeah, sorry, I was just–”
“Great, so, what do you think? Is this the place?”
Jessica gestured in front of us from her place seated in front of me on the motorcycle. The warmth of her body against mine begins to cause sensations I’ve never–
Hey, wait a second. Badger, you’re screwing around with me again, aren’t you?
Adam hears a faint chuckling in the back of his mind.
He jumps off the bike, deciding to ignore the feelings that had been placed there by the mischievous muse, and look at the location Jessica had brought them to.
A large dark lighthouse stood above them, easily over two hundred feet tall. The darkness of the lighthouse immediately marked this building as something different to Adam, as he was much more accustomed to lighthouses being painted in colors that made them visible. This one, however, looked like it was trying to blend in with the background.
That was nearly impossible, however, with the column of fire exploding from it’s roof and stretching directly up into space.
And spread out around the base of the structure were a group of robed individuals, holding hands and chanting something vaguely demonic.
“Um, yeah, I guess this is probably the place. Couldn’t think of anything more Lovecraftian than this.”
