In the hell which is school I push my way through the endless clouds of Anoyence and Waste-of-time. I have lost it - the golden path is close but not visable. The Chosen Few who know the path of dreams well, stick to it ceremoniously; never wavering, never falling. Only those who are observent enough to notice the few become Chosen themselves - I am happy that I was one of them. The Way is clearer when you keep to the gem-strewn cobbles of dreams. You can avoid getting in too much hassle with 'The Ones who are Low'. Or, as some call them, "The Fallen Ones." Most Chosen keep straight to the path, but there are many who are at the edges, helping those who have not yet come to the fork in the road to choose the right way. I am one of them, but now I have stepped off the path and have lost it... for the moment. A cloud lies over the entrence to the Way of Dreams - which missleads the unpoisoned into choosing the wrong way. The cloud is made of a puple mist, with gold sparks thrown in for good meausure. The First of the Chosen, who were the most powerful (being First), had created it - a thing of wonder and great beauty. Not that the Unspoiled would notice. The Clouds frighten the Unlearned. Frighten them into believing the tales of The Fallen Ones. The Ones who are Low have ways of creating the feeling of happyness from what, truly, is Waste. Utter Waste. Of everything.
A gleam catches my eye; my face is graced with a smile. I have found my path again - not far from where I left it. A message is scrawled in Our Toung in the sand outside the path.
In English it Reads:
Sunlight. Silence. Flame.My eyes widen. All will be lost if speed is not given.I cross out the message with my athame. Close my eyes. Step forward.
A rush of cold air. Many voices, calm and happy - joyful. images pass through my mind.
Sunlight. Trees of great size. Fruit. Green leaves. Life. Helpfullness. Gratitide. Abundence...
Gradually
Silence. Still, cold air flows with force. Empty. Void. Sleeplessness. A gentle smell of ash. Becoming stronger. That's Not right. Warmth, Sticky warmth, Over-powering heat.
Then more voices. Deeper this time. No safety. Anger. Hate. Spite. Malevelence. The wind drops suddenly. Unbearable heat. Red light in my closed eyelids. Oppressive. Sickly. Malicious. Pain. I hold out my hand, eyes still tightly shut. A smaller, smoother, cool palm is pressed into mine hurriedly. I grasp it. Open my eyes.
I'm back on the side of The Path of Dreams. Lyra's with me. I smile at her, then push her to the gems.
She is gone.