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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young boy lives in a utopia, however, that utopia consists of our dreams. Since recent times are becoming more dark and tough, our dreams are instead nightmares or not as happy as they used to be, therefore destroying their world.

Submitted: November 18, 2010

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Submitted: November 18, 2010

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The hill glittered as the setting sun made its way deeper into the horizon. The moon, rising swiftly, was soon the only emitting light in the village. The pearly white glow sent an ominous feeling through the shadows, while silence crept in every crevice. The people of the village were now asleep; tucked away into each of their own dreams, creating some adventure they hardly knew the true meaning of. For every dream, he felt. For every dream, his world twisted. For every dream, life as he knew it was being swept away from him. For every dream, he himself was dying.
He lived in their utopia. Whatever was dreamed out there was brought forth here. How twisted, backwards, and confusing! Why didn't they get what they wanted? But they were weak. The people of the other side dreamt of pure happiness and success. Did they not listen to their childhood stories? Some even throw out the words daily, those wretched preachers! One can never achieve true happiness. However, in utopia, there is nothing but true happiness to the naked eye with, for instance, technology far beyond musical devices, light bulbs, and flying objects. Money existed here, because they dreamt of obtaining it, but remained useless. They didn't want to pay taxes. They didn't want to pay bills. They didn't consider it fair that some have so much, while others so very little. Oh, how ignorant, he contemplated. "And they will destroy my world because of it," he muttered softly.
Back on the other side times were getting tough. People were losing sleep over their demanding jobs with such long hours, school required much more than just reading a story and the idea of an imagination had just reached its peak of extinction. When did they have time to sleep? When did they have time to dream? They had just about reached the absolute bottom. No ambition. No motivation. No one seemed to care anymore. What did it matter, traveling all the way to Europe to see some building? What did it matter, living until you were one hundred years old? What did it matter, politics? Ha! Who needs to dream? Even if they did dream, their ingredients were poor. Poverty, the moroseness of others, nightmares; and they all lingered for an extraordinarily long time.
Utopia was bursting at the seams. How much longer could this perfect bubble remain impenetrable to the darkness they created? He was worried, and his people could feel the strange vibes. That was why he was here, standing at the Door of Creation. No one was allowed inside. Dark horrors were rumored to occur, and his entire world was imagined to burst into flames. What did it matter? The people of the other side were bound to destroy it anyway, and his ten-year-old curiosity was burning in anticipation. With one hand on the golden handle, and one hand on the mighty door, he yanked it open, and enveloped into a sudden darkness.


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