Garoo

As soon as the elevator’s doors closed behind us, a few droplets of acid fell through the ceiling vents. Then the speakers played a message I didn’t really listen to, because we were all shouting, but it probably was very menacing. After which the droplets became a shower, and ate through our ears, hands, skulls, and the eyes and faces of those of us who were unfortunate enough to look up by reflex. Between two hysterical screams, I had the nerve to think I absolutely needed to pass out, or even have a heart attack, so I wouldn’t be there for what was coming next, and that’s when I woke up.

If my real life is the one I dream of, and if this one life, where I blog and play a virtual life in There, is just a dream in my true, real life, then you can assume that my true, real self is currently in a coma. Good news for you: the longer this coma lasts, the longer the blog. Bad news: the day I wake up from here and back into my true, real life, where I’ve been digested by an elevator, will probably be the last time I go to bed here. Because I really doubt I survived the liters of acid that fell upon us.

If I never post again, you’ll know that the me you never knew is dead. And you’ll also know you only existed in my (or his) imagination. Which means you’ll know nothing, because you won’t exist anymore. Unless everybody’s dreams are connected, and all of you are the dreams of all the people in the real world. Which is a possibility that shouldn’t be ruled out after all, in a mixed The Matrix and Serial Experiments: Lain kind of way.

I wonder who are the other two people who’ll disappear from your world tonight (or disappeared last night—maybe I’m the only one who’s still artifically kept alive in a hospital room) because they died in that elevator. I think one of the two was Jack Bristow, in case that piece of information is of any use…