Time was running out, time was slipping away, and in a matter of a single moment, our life would slip through our fingers like sand. There was nothing that could be done. Life, for all who mystified from the void and into its experience, promised death. Death, however, made no such promises of life to its dead. In fact, all who returned to the void we call pre-birth cannot recall the faintest memory. It was not so bad, though. These ideas however made us hardly capable of sleep, for without dreams sleep seemed parallel to death with utmost similarity. What was one to do? Live, live, live.... Was it necessary for us, who, made out of the stuff of dreams, to worry about the end of our dream? If we were just dreams, then whenever the greater consciousness awakened - we would vanish. Do you remember all of your dreams? They often slip into nothingness unless one can grasp them quick enough. It was also possible that we dreamed again and again throughout this eternal slumber. That, even after our death, after our dream had come to an end, there would be another, and another, and another - until we realized we were dreaming, we were dreams. From there, we would be awakened, and quite capable of mastering our world of thoughts. Who is to say this our world is not unlike this?
