Dreams - The Endless Hall

Short note -- Please do not read this as a short story. Nor would I even call it fiction--there's no plot, no character development, and only one setting. It was a dream, a very lucid yet vague dream, and like many dreams, it felt real. So please, read it with that in mind.

Dreams – The Endless Hall

You are a young boy, of about seven or eight. You are running. You do not know what the place is; but it is dark, cavernous. You don’t feel afraid. No, you pump your feet and keep on running. From what or to where, you do not know; neither do you care. You do not think much; you only run. It is not exhausting; neither is it refreshing or pleasant. It just is. You look down at your feet. They are in small brown sandals, and they slowly travel through the air as you raise them to run. How they move so slowly when you are pumping them so quickly is beyond your powers of comprehension; it does bother you a bit, but you move on.

You look around. You notice the place is a hall; a very long one at that. So long that you cannot see its ends. You can, however, see the sides. The walls are exquisite; there are baroque oil paintings with intricately carved frames and Venetian masks hanging from long strands of gold; there are velvet chairs fit for kings and candelabras with intertwined branches; there are oval mirrors in dark recesses and black columns of spiraling ebony. There are riches, but you do not care; you only run ahead, and the furnishings fall behind. There is a circle of faint light around you that alleviates the darkness; it is swallowed by the shadow that runs as fast as you do. Again you look down. You notice that the floor is an endless chessboard; polished squares of black and white marble that are perfectly sized to fit your stride. You still run; you raise and lower your feet in a pumping motion that is as quick as it is slow. Only an echo reaches your ear; a sound with no beginning and no end. Your feet make no sound; neither does your breathing.

Soon you become concerned. You want to get out of this place; but you do not know why. Nor do you know how. You look at the walls and realize you are not moving at all. You run but stay in the same spot; the chessboard floor is receding as fast as you advance. You run from white to black to white; from black to white to black. You pump your feet faster, but the walls do not move; the chessboard floor keeps up with your pace.

Suddenly you feel you are being watched. You lift up your eyes, the act of which endures an incredible passage of time. Ahead is a woman in a white cloak; she stands behind a massive desk of ornate wood, her gaze fixed and unwavering, her face unencumbered by expression. She is beautiful, dignified, regal. You are running towards her; you understand you have always been. And yet the pumping of your feet is ineffectual; the chessboard floor retreats still. You want to plead for help, for deliverance from this place, but your mouth does not form the words; you can only run. You realize you will never reach the woman; you flounder.

Then you realize the woman has horns; sharp white crescents adorn her head. But you keep running, because there is nothing else you can do. You keep running through the endless hall of the chessboard floor.