We all like to believe we’re in charge of our own fates. Otherwise what’s the point of anything? I stand in front of the four dream doors, debating whether to enter one of them. They represent four minds of four separate people who are suffering right now, whether they’re ‘only’ dreaming or not. But I’m exhausted and I still have Dante’s warnings ringing in my ears: if I slip up, I could get seriously injured. Or worse. Despite that, I’m not sure I can just walk away. I know what it’s like to suffer and be alone at the same time.I half turn and stare down the corridor. It curves off into the distance, with many other corridors branching off it. There are dozens of them. I wonder how far I would have to walk before I find more black doors. Terror squeezes at my heart. Why me? I’m not brave enough for this. I’m not strong or particularly clever. The dreamweaver should be someone else. I need to pull myself out of this funk but funk is what I do well. I press my palms against the surface of the first black door and draw back, hissing as an unpleasant tingle runs across my skin.
