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Allies, once inseparable, splinter until they break apart.
An insidiousness carves its way through Wonderland, challenging the land’s very existence.
Battle lines will be drawn as pages, long languishing in darkness, are finally illuminated.
Swords will clash, blood will be spilled, and lives will be lost.
For what is written can still be erased.
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“You mentioned the need to take a symbolic object within the dream,” I say as I hover over his work, “one I must destroy. Yet, you have given no instruction on what that object must be.”
He nudges his half-moon glasses up his bulbous nose, barely sparing a glance toward me. “I did.”
Which means I must figure it out myself. I do not bother asking how one even brings an object into their dream, as I can already guess his answer.
What, then, would sufficiently constitute symbolic for a series of dreams I cannot remember? In place of images, all I possess are deep-seated emotions that refuse to relinquish their hold on me. Including a maddening sense of love . . . love for a nameless man whose face I cannot conjure.
Why can I not recall his face?
Perhaps a blank mask will do? Destroy the mask, terminate a passion for an imaginary person for whom I have assigned preposterous feelings for.