89. Glass

Sometimes, when he shut eyes, he would find himself inside an old dream that had lingered with him since childhood.

He was surrounded by stark white walls, smooth, flawless, and pristine. He would call it a room, but in truth the ceiling and floor stretched far beyond any visible boundaries. And yet, it still managed to feel closed.

There was never any sound. Every footstep rang silent. No noise could survive within that sterile space.

Only a single wooden table broke up the empty expanse. It stood tall and square, exactly at waist level, and on its dark surface sat a single perfectly clear glass jar. He would stand right in front of the table, and in his own hands he always held a heavy pitcher of water.

He would walk forward and pour the water into the jar, but mere seconds after he’d done so, it would drain away and the jar would once again be empty, its interior as unstained as ever. He would try again, and once again it would empty itself. He tried again, and again, and again, but no matter how many times he tried, the jar could never be filled.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Water would soon drip down the sides of the table, pouring down onto the stark floors in steady streams. He could never bring himself to stop, not even when the room began to flood with water and it rose higher and higher. Still he continued trying, perhaps out of misguided faith, perhaps because he couldn’t stand the sight of the empty jar. Even if it was only for a second, even if it drained away immediately, he was sure that the brief second when the jar was filled was the only thing keeping him sane.

And so, he continued filling that eternally empty jar as the water level rose around him, never taking his eyes off the clear glass.

He would open his eyes with the image of that empty jar burned into his pupils. He would drag himself up from the hard ground and wander about the day, still feeling the weight of the pitcher in his hands, would feel his legs sloshing through invisible waves.

He’d heard some people say that they liked to run away in their dreams, that it was the only safe place they had, the only reprieve they could get. He’d never found much use in that. If anything, he was happy his dreams were not peaceful, because if they were, then it would be far worse to wake up to reality.

No, better to rise with heavy lungs, to wander through the waking world with eyes half shut.

And when he finally crawled back to sleep, when exhaustion took over, he would close his eyes and see that glass jar, and he would once again lose himself to the cycle.