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[ink_splotch]

"Whose dream was this story?" he asks. I have no answer, looking at myself and the remaining characters - we have all been trapped among the pages of a book we never wanted to be a part of. Whose dream are we? Do we belong to that dream? Are we possessed by it? Or is there a dreaming belonging to each and every one of us?

I have a vision. It looks like a flickering light. It looks like the vanishing dew you can never touch, no matter how close you get. And I would like to finish my story with an untold number of shapes I can see in this little drop of dew I found once upon a time.

The next chapter of my story will be a fairy tale.

From Misreading Kundera in Tehran, by Naghmeh Zarbafian.

Comments

[lattara.livejournal.com]

This sounds like a really good book.