"Have you ever dreamed?"
A female news host directed her microphone toward me and flashed a charming smile in her cool business suit; for a brief second, I almost replied that my dream was standing right in front of me, and a rather big one at that.
Yet I quickly regained my composure, uttering the phrase I had rehearsed for so long.
"My dream is very simple, it is—"
...
Reality seemed to fracture, allowing another realm to pour forth from the infinite void.
...
Beep!
Beep!
I sat outside an operating theater; actually, outside a surgical room where nurses and doctors performed surgery inside, while I merely observed the operating table through a tiny pane of glass.
Beep~~~
Only then did I realize a strange sound emanating from my phone.
It was from my editor, who apparently required a manuscript urgently.
"How is it deadline time already?"
Too fast, everything over these past few days truly unfolded so fast that a few sentences could summarize it all, or perhaps that was simply because I perceived it as too fast?
I hurried into the restroom, my fingers opening the Note application on my phone, frantically searching for the manuscript I had prepared in advance.
"Did I save it? I remember writing it, right? I think I did, where is it, where is it!"
I gnashed my teeth, banging against the restroom stall door, hoping I was not bothering anyone.
I shut the door, yet it seemed the lock failed to engage; had I broken it? It seemed so.
Sitting down upon the toilet seat, I resolved not to submit anything at all, to hell with the money!
"Ahhhh, damn it all."
I sat staring blankly into the void, striving to forget this realm of false reality.
Yet as I tried to sink into that feeling of emptiness, my head buzzed uncontrollably.
Like a soft drink bottle lightly shaken, my brain gradually hissed out gas and soda in the form of meaningless song lyrics.
It felt gentle, wrapping softly around my head, resembling a melodious tide gradually engulfing the shoreline.
Until the singular detail I still recalled was someone screaming, someone holding me back, someone pinning me down.
I failed to comprehend what transpired; I raised my gaze, only to witness the restroom mirror shattered into a thousand shards.
...
Have you ever dreamed?
Dreamed of escaping reality to dwell within dreams.
There exist lives we forever yearn for, dream of, because they are far too wonderful, far too beautiful.
Therefore we seek the illusory realm, where reality and dreams exist merely one step apart.
And someone once said that reading a novel means reading a life, dreaming a dream means dreaming of being a person.
My name is Joe, someone who casually overheard that while on a business trip, and decided to try dreaming about it.
'Hmm, why do I not try reading a few novels?' I asked myself.
Classic literature is far too lengthy, and dry as well, so I began with web novels to see.
'Oh, how wonderful,' I attempted reading trending works, newly rising stories, works completed long ago...
'Yet why... is everything so simplistic?' I could not help wondering, as the joy from those initial books gradually gave way to a sense of suspicion.
I found it strange; it would always be a regressor, a transmigrator, an excessively powerful individual, a weakling pretending to be strong, someone who knows everything that will occur...
'Oh no, there remain other choices, where one can continue reading new fragments of life,' I thought as I searched through various tags.
...
I was not entirely certain; I felt somewhat satiated to the point of nausea with web novels, so I tried reading classic literature.
Some were wonderful, some proved incomprehensible, some I abandoned halfway, while with others I pondered why no one knew of them yet.
Yet the emotion was no longer intact as in the beginning; when I read web novels, perhaps I still preferred that dreamlike sensation of reading about those types of characters.
I knew the feeling was strange; every character was... predictable in a way, yet induced deeper daydreaming, even though I knew how every story would unfold, how it would end.
'Hey, why do I not try writing a little?' I thought to myself; regardless, I felt exhausted with my endlessly repeating life, so why not try something new.
I attempted writing about familiar character tropes, occasionally more novel, occasionally classic; I paced back and forth daydreaming about character beats, plotlines.
I dreamed of stories where I could become the characters within, becoming a true part of the narrative.
Yet come on, keep the fantasies within reason; I enjoyed such character archetypes, yet I could never become like them; I had lived this life for many years, and I knew daydreaming was always beautiful.
And then one day... I rested my head upon my working desk.
Cluttered across it were work reports, alongside the computer screen still displaying pending tasks.
I took a sip of coffee, quite comfortable; I had gone without sleep for over a day, so what I needed now was a long sleep.
Amidst my exhaustion, I frequently pondered one question: 'Why do web authors and online readers love stories about transmigrating into fictional characters and the sensation of standing above ten thousand people?'
I always knew what the answer was, yet continuously delayed answering it, because regardless, thinking further yielded no benefit.
I let out a long yawn. Glancing down at my phone, it was past 10 PM already; taking a brief nap should be fine, right?
Glancing at the phone wallpaper, a few people were visible there, yet none possessed a face.
...
"SOMEONE! Someone call an ambulance!"
"There is a dead body over there!"
"JOE!! JOE JOTHANE!!!"
What on earth? I was merely trying to sleep, so why was there commotion? Who died?
I attempted to use my hands to push myself up and open my eyes, only to behold pitch darkness.
'Ah... everyone...'
...
Who am I?
I touched my face, feeling only a terrifying stickiness, resembling a layer of slimy mud, or rather like a thick black tar substance.
I attempted to open my eyes, yet only total darkness filled my field of view, before it gradually brightened.
A dreary grayness enveloped the world where I resided, yet within the world I observed, there existed only a vivid crimson hue.
My name is Ron Irus.
Who am I?
I stood up, yet collapsed once more; my legs had burned to charcoal already.
Yet that was not the most horrific detail; right before my eyes, upon a spotless white birthday cake that still held a single candle, lay a layer of human skin.
Surrounding it were dozens of deceased people, their corpses burned to ash, yet upon a few faces that retained their shape, they appeared completely soulless.
Something had transpired.
Yet I was unable to see it, for this blind creature could only witness the roaring fire concealing the human layer.
My eyes widened; no, my eyes had been wide open all along, and in a brief instant, I understood what it was.
I picked up that piece of human skin, then stretched it out; how strange, how remarkably familiar.
And then I put it over my face, as if putting on a mask.
I am Ron Irus.
Ron put on the skin mask for himself, whereupon his face, soaked in black blood and sticky fluid, gradually stuck to his face.
Yet then, he could perceive nothing, as if his physical body lacked sensation, exhausting all muscle strength, feeling on the verge of passing out.
Then he lay down upon the ground, blood spreading into a river.
"..."
Just as Ron lay down in the blood, not far from that location, a figure holding an umbrella stood silently observing.
He was naked, his entire body covered in thick, unkempt hair as if he had gone without bathing for a long time.
"To enter here, did you force your own brain to create a psychological flaw to crawl through?
Are you not afraid of becoming a vegetable?"
He asked Ron Irus, who stood beside him, watching his past self.
"I did not think that deeply," he replied.