The Lane(Ali Ahmad) I felt I was in some unknown place yet no fear struck my heart. I was unable to sense what happened to me for the time being. So, I decided to hurl my ever-explorer mind into an excursion.

It was a lane in real terms when I looked consciously. But I couldn't see its end or beginning either. Both directions were completely symmetrical, to be specific, and I could only see a few things clearly up to a certain distance, vague things hard to describe with perfection at larger distances.

There were colored papers hanging all around like the painted interior of a great soul. But at my wonder I couldn't see from where they were hanged. Both sides of the lane were enveloped with blackness. This didn't allow me to be more precise about its appearance. It was dark; darker than what we see when we close our eyes.

I decided to move on a direction. I was amazed as I took my first step in the lane. The surroundings changed all in a second. It was a day in night-time. Gas-filled bulbs in rusted hexagonal frames covered by transparent glasses were slowly propagating dimming light that surprisingly illuminated the blackness around to some extent.

A man jumped out of the darkness and stood just in front of me. He had a black hat in his hand, a grey hat on his head and a book in the other hand.

There was silence to its extreme level. I didn't get the nerve to say hello, neither did he, rather we exchanged eyebeams where I was surprised and he was disturbed.

The stranger began to walk past me. I did look back. He was murmuring something like this:
She was pretty
She was decent
She had wounds
She never knew
She had tears in her smile
She never felt.
She chose reality over truth
Truth she was unaware of
Truth that was dormant.

She lead her life
Like others did
Like the world wanted her to live
She had faces
One for the world
One for the God
One for herself

Time feasted on her dreams
And later she died
Her scars never redeemed
Lost in oblivion
With her
Still a happy end!

He disappeared and I couldn't hear more of his aimless babblings though these could be the most meaningful words to him. Priority should be given priority.

Is there any signs of life here? My mind began to derive such expressions over time. I still wasn't able to figure out a way to define my current existence and felt more like I was abducted into an abyss of illusions.

The surroundings were dreamy if I try to mean "Dream" in its literary reference. The lights were increasing in numbers and intensity all around me keeping pace with the density of darkness. Too much light and too much darkness in juxtaposition and their sudden collisions placed me out of my plane of consciousness.

For a facile approach to understand my current existence in space-time, I took some steps further and came across a shop. I found its name when I took a sedulous look as it was written in extremely bright and illusive colors. The name was "Dream Shop". It wasn't a normal shop as the name suggested. There were only empty racks made of colored woods. I pushed my lucidity to its limit to understand what I was seeing and emulate seeing into believing. The colors were changing in the blink of an eye.

Abruptly a man appeared just before me and greeted me with a blank face. I assumed this man to be the shopkeeper. My presumption didn't disappoint me. "What can I do for you?" he asked. I got a chance to shoot my questions boiling in my veins creating chaos of confusion. Nothing extra-ordinary, I replied and asked, Am I dreaming sir? The man gave me an eerie smile and said, "A man never questions whether he's dreaming or not in a dream."

I wasn't amused, neither satisfied. Donning the glasses of relevance, I asked. "What can I buy here?" The shopkeeper replied, "Dreams." I wonderingly said, "Dreams!?" He replied, "Yes. You heard me right." I asked, "What kind of dreams?" He enunciated his offerings to alleviate my ignorance by saying, "Any kind. From dust to lust, penny to pain, gardens on sea-water, setting sun on the west and another rising on the east at the same time, sweetened lullabys, sugarcoated trees, rainbow of infinite colors and anything you are able to think or want to feel."

I was stunned at the range of dreams. I asked, "What must I trade for?" "Your imagination! You have to lend me your imagination." He said.
I asked again if there would be any consequences of my trade. The shopkeeper said, "Yes. That part of your imagination can't be restored." I exclaimed, "Frightening!" The shopkeeper uttered the platitude, "There's a price for everything." I nodded to express my understanding. The shopkeeper asked, "And this positivity can be assumed as an agreement for the trade?" I replied, "Hopefully." He then said, "Okay. What do you wish to dream?" I said, "The fear of death."

He was shocked but eased in a second and said, "That thing is unimaginable. Slice of life may decrease it but ends in death only."
I took swagger inside for somewhat unknown reason, maybe because I brought a limit to infinity and said, "I see. You are concise about your denials and opinions." The shopkeeper said, "A man who sells dreams should be."

Then the dream shop just disappeared leaving no sign of earlier existence except my mind got throttled in the process of insinuation to my whereabouts.

I was alone in the seemingly endless lane. This sharpened my senses to the extent that I could hear the tick-tock of a clock too loud. I decided to proceed further. After a few steps, a series of blinding lights hit me with flawless accuracy. I succumbed to its efforts temporarily.

When the lights faded and my vision rejuvenated gradually I explored myself in front of a shop. It was different in every parameter from the previous one except I was the only potential buyer. It was a Story shop with bleak structure, only the name inscribed before my eyes.

There was an old man, too old to narrate, older than I'd ever seen. I supposed this man to be the storyteller and afterwards I found myself absolutely correct. He spoke first at my wonder.

He narrated, "There was a young little bird burdened with the weight of loneliness on one foot and unspoken sorrow on another; wings tore off by reality. Instead of trying to heal or expecting a miracle from the ocean of hopes, he was relentless as he was caged from long ago.

I commented, "Poor bird!"

He surprised me by saying, "It's you."

I was overwhelmed in an outrageous fashion. I summarily began to think about its correctness but stopped right there, deciding to continue the conversation. "Am I supposed to like it?" I said. The storyteller promptly replied, "It is truth." I was indifferent to scrutinize it, rather I said, "Well. What should I do?" The storyteller replied in a question to a question and it was to ask what had brought me there.

I said, "I don't know. I found myself here all of a sudden." The storyteller said, "You are from reality?"
I said, "Yes, Reality and it's hard."
The storyteller laughed like he was glorifying my ignorance. He asserted, "Reality is the easiest realm you can ever have. Your ancestors picked religion, humanity, emotion, civilization and knowledge. They intermingled all of them and consolidated an abstract conception called 'Reality' where you control your wishes. Think about others realms like dreams or utopias or the ingredients of reality separately. You'll be lost in the vortex of thoughts and with no return."
I said, "Your wisdom may have sickened you."

The storyteller said I couldn't be normal, normal is what you are. Every man has different perceptions from the age of the rise of senses and being normal is the toughest thing to do. It needs a lot of efforts and sacrifices. I didn't grasp its essence and said, "You could be right."
Then the storyteller said, "Let me do my job. What kind of story do you want to hear?"

I asked, "What do I have to return?"
He replied, "Another story. That's how story shop runs."
I then said, "Sounds good."
When you are lost, a story can refine your thoughts regardless how valueless it may be, I told myself.
Then I told the storyteller that I wanted to hear a romantic story.
He with enthusiasm said, "You seem to test yourself for its suitability." I responded in nothing, neither vocal nor facial expressions.

The storyteller started his voyage in a soft tone to the land of romance and tried to sweep me away with his tempest. He started, "There was a young man and a lady, both lived in the nestling eastern woods, in a nissen hut built with care and caress where love echoed in breath-feeling distance. Their story is very easy to tell but hard to feel its fervor. They played the game of innocence like little children, recollected memories of sweet past on nature's carpet like old couples, made love beyond physical frame. The man was sensuous enough to act like a fool knowingly just to make her laugh though the lady understood all of these yet acted like she didn't, making his efforts fruitful. The connotation of their love was laid on the harmony they formed with nearby woods and sparkling spring fall. Her lap was the best pillow he ever found to place his head. Whenever they cuddled together beneath the trees, the love-tamed leaves would toss in a harmonic pattern to render her hairs disheveled and maneuvering trails of further passionate acts and the luckiest sunrays reflected by the waterfall would surface on her cheek and dance on the delicate skin. One day the man died."

I was pretty much mesmerized and afterwards due to a noticeable silence in him I said, "Then?"
The storyteller said, "The end."
I exclaimed, "How can it be ended here?"
"Why not?" asked the storyteller.
I said confidently, "It's just seemed started. A figuratively described love indeed well and sudden tragedy could propagate further, I guess."

Then the storyteller said, "Am I unable to entangle you in the web of words I spoke of?"
"Certainly not. But I found no prominent gist or moral to mark your eloquence as a legendary one. For me, it has failed," I said to support myself.

The storyteller took a deep breath and angrily said, "Well. If you want to learn things, there are many books on ethics, religious views and academics. What makes you assume a story to be a potential moral teacher? A moment of thoughtfulness or thoughtlessness is best a story can do to enlighten your interior."

"I need more elucidation I presume," I said.
The storyteller wasn't pleased at my request but he continued, "When a story has some valuable synopsis with such intentions to amuse you or teach you something, then it's optimized not the free flow of an eager soul. You must know literature is a lie in truth. It's just a way to discover the reader's sensual inferiority and allegedly prove it.

I nodded with thoughtful eyes.

He then told me to tell my story.

I took some time and started, "When I was a young kid, I used to keep my window open during summer nights. Sometimes, I looked at a tree close to our garden. At daytime, I admired its greenish offerings but at night time it frightened me with vicious miniaturization of unusual things under subtle light. One day, I asked my mother about it and she told me not to look at it anymore. But my curiosity was a cursed one. So I kept looking and being horrified. Now I don't fear it a bit. Fear helped me grow up. Actually fear transforms a child into an adult I feel." I was absorbed in uttering my story. When I ended, I expected an opinion over it.

But the shop was disappeared. I was only a little surprised. This happens when uncanny incidents take place in a usual manner. Series of these hideous events elevated me to the apogee of the trajectory of believing in transcendentalism. Earlier I supposed this lane to be an ethereal one infused with mysteries but as time passed on I found it more like a philosophy market. I was happy though overlooking the seamy features of the lane.

I looked all around me again and I was alone.

I started to proceed again. From the remnants of earlier experiences, I expected to encounter another shop. I moved some distances and I saw what I expected. Another shop! This time it was the "Memory Shop".

At first I was confused at its attire and supposing what it may offer. But as I talked with the keeper, I understood all. The shop was like an infinite void to fill. Time gifts us memories, bitter or sweet. People love to rewind them and interweave them with the present. It was a shop that could enable you to travel back to your past where you might have the chance to relive same memories or you might shape them differently. As I was excited about my childhood memories always, I told the keeper that I wanted to go back to my childhood again.

Needless to say, that wasn't unconditional, of course. I was told that if I wanted to travel back in my memory lane I must sacrifice my present.
Then the keeper said, "It is you who willingly has lost your childish innocence to be an adult. Do you really wish to sacrifice your present and go back?"

I was stumbled in every possible way I could think. I thought to myself deeply. In truth I didn't want to reverse my phases of life. Maybe memories are made to remember. I was able to convince myself and I left the shop. I felt like I was starting to learn things about life from here. Gleams of gaiety were piercing through my soul.

Afterwards I had a blank face and a blank mind. I was thoughtless for a brief period of time and when I explored myself again I was in the world I used to be in. Life everywhere!

I wish to go back to the lane again and then surely I'll be better prepared to encapsulate the gestures I may get there.

---