Barren | ✓

a s h

for years on end, i would have a dream.

i would be in a library, surrounded by books  across tens of shelves, the glorious bounty of knowledge tugging at me from all angles. the construct of the library was ancient, the architecture supreme. it was beautiful than any library i'd ever seen, the rich scent of old pages spreading tingles of warmth through my finger.

it was my safe haven.

until one day, i found myself at the helm of a book shelf. the library was dark; night had already fallen outside. but something wasn't right. there was an air of treachery, of betrayal. something sinister lurking in the shadows.

and suddenly i caught a reflection.

it was me.

as though on cue, i saw myself burn a cigarette with numb fingers, throwing the burning bud on the first book i saw.

the book singed.

i tried to scream but seemed to be paralyzed by the horror of what i was committing.

it couldn't be me.

and yet it was.

i kept throwing lit buds on the same book until I finally caught fire.

my mind caught fire.

before i knew it, i threw the lighter onto the book.

the adjoining books caught flame.

in the next five minutes, the entire shelf caught fire.

in the next fifteen, the entire library.

i stood transfixed as tongues of fire lashed at me from all sides, trying to claim me as the recipient of the brave.

but i was a coward.

i kept staring at the reflection as it stared back at me, deadened and black.

i couldn't breathe anymore.

black smoke engulfed my vision soon, my breath coming in sharp, harsh rasps as i fell to my knees, eyes watering.

the floor was burning, my skin was burning, my lungs exploded.

i was dying.

the books all around me had turned into shreds, the place that was once my haven now my untimely coffin.

sometime later, i felt myself slipping. slipping into something a lot more unnatural. something cold and crude.

something tainted.

at this point, my eyes would open. the room would always be dark and my breathing as escalated as if i couldn't breathe in real.

the dream always unsettled me.

as if on cue, i'd pick the pack of cigarettes and light one up, the fumes regulating my heart almost instantaneously.

i was a 20-year old boy when i saw the dream for the first time. the evening before was when i'd smoked my first pack. back then, life was prime, beautiful and at the peak of everything i had sketched out to achieve.

the dream meant nothing more than a nightmare.

it was only once i turned 43 and underwent my first chemotherapy that the dream stopped occurring.

i'd created my reality.

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- a man bound to the consequences of his vice

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