I was dead at twenty-seven years old.

I looked at my hands. I had not done much. I had led a simple life. I looked off the distance, thinking of my ideal. I wanted to become more efficient, more immersed in something I could learn.

“You followed your path to enlightenment,” said the ideal, with his back facing me.

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“I did not. I was missing something.” I looked on. The place was dark. “I don’t know what it is. When you know nothing about yourself, you can claim immorality; when you know everything about yourself, you can claim morality. That is my hunch.”

The ideal shrugged. It faced me. “That’s interesting. Are you saying that you wanted to be different?”

"No. I just want to understand myself."

“I see.” Candles lit about the ideal. “If you don’t die, you won’t find me.”