I was a small mouse, it always happened
this way. The ears, the whiskers. I felt small, furry, lost. There
was nothing around me, a vast empty space of which I was the centre,
the nexus where otherwise was nothing.
A mouse, why a mouse. Dreams got weird
sometimes but I was always usually myself, or at least something
indistinguishable from myself. This time the sensation of being a
mouse was distinct, irrefutable.
I ran, spindly weak legs rolling me
forward, the exertion only making me feel more out of place in the
vacuum. I was moving, around me nothing changed. I ran faster,
finding some greater energy somewhere inside my mouse body and all it achieved was to make my body grow warmer.
I changed direction, following a zigzag
through the emptiness, terrified of missing something. This maze did
not have walls, nothing to stop me, nothing to guide me. Soon my
mouse legs grew tired and I stopped.
So my mouse mind pondered my situation,
as the mouse body stood still. It grew cold while I sent strands of
weak thought through the empty world, trying to imagine a map of what
it might be, what rules it might follow.
Time passed and the cold grew sharper,
deeper. I had to move, no time to think.
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