Once upon a time. . .

Being a sober person, it is hard for me to give in to imagination, releasing what we might call "the inner-child." I am not sure I even have one. I subjected myself, giving total control of this assignment to my friend, who, wholly unlike me, lets his imagination run rampant. Some of the facts in this story are based on reality, like my love of chocolate and an Indian lake with known healing powers. The surreal in the story seems so unlike me and yet it was formulated by someone who knows me well based on his perception of me. I suppose then that it has some notable truth to it as well. This children's story is therefore an exposition of myself based on the imagination of another. I don't necessarily understand everything in the story, but maybe that is because I need to learn a few more things about myself; maybe I have some inner child after all. . . .

Once lived a Nathan-boy. He was in love with the nighttime. It wasn't that he didn't like the day, or the sun, but that he loved sleep. He preferred sleep to pretty much everything, except perhaps eating or chocolate or both. Mostly he was awake, but other times he was asleep. And when he slept he dreamt. And his dreams were fantastical.

One normal night, he pulled the covers up - far up near his nose. From his toes to his eyelids his whole body was relaxed - he breathed deeply and in less than a minute he was gone. Gone, to a place where only he knew, and though he had been there many times, it was always different.

In his dreamplace everything made perfect sense. The doors had key-holes that only opened on Thursdays and the floorboards weren't made of wood, but of words. He was only welcome here because he understood these oddities and all of these oddities understood him. In other words, it was a mutual, I'm sure.

On this normal night, the Nathan-boy found himself walking down a long road, on both sides of him were large gusts of wind, walking and talking quietly - keeping mostly to themselves. He recognized most of them from a few nights before, although he didn't recall their names. It didn't matter though, because he was sure they didn't remember his.

As the Nathan-boy walked he came to a door. He opened it [for it was Thursday] and entered a small room.

The room had a floor, cement. And several jars and glasses were lined against one of the walls. A certain jar was labeled "magic water". Attached to the jar was a note. It read, "My dear Nathan-boy, I am so glad that you have at last found this jar. I have been saving it aside for you since last August. This water in this jar is special and you must use it wisely. It came from an ancient Indian bathing ground and is known for its magical healing powers. I hope you find it useful along your journey, your friend. Bonne-Touelle."

The Nathan-boy glanced around to see if anyone was there. He was alone, except for a few silhouettes on the wall, but they didn't bother him. He turned to the left and noticed that there was a staircase. At the bottom of the staircase was a bucket, the bucket appeared to be full of soapy water. He walked over to the stairs, sat down and removed his shoes. He rolled up his long-johns and slipped his sore feet into the water. After he sat for a moment and thought about Bonne-Touelle, he unscrewed the jar of magic water. Before he poured it into the bucket he held it to his nose; he breathed in deeply.

No sooner had the odor from the water entered his nose, that he felt himself begin to tumble. He saw a woman's shoes coming down the stairs and his head began to spin and the stairs began to shake a bit. The lights went out and the Nathan-boy dropped the jar - but he didn't hear the jar shatter and he couldn't make out what the woman was saying to him. He just kept falling, down, down, down, deeper and deeper.

The Nathan-boy sat up, hair disheveled, with a grin on his young face, excited to return again to his dreamplace. His eyes again grew heavy and the grin faded, but not forever, surely it would return.

The End.