The Universe Of Tomorrow

The Walk Between Worlds

Describing the swamp is like trying to capture a nightmare in words; it's a tapestry woven from the threads of fear and the unknown. It's a place that feels as old as time, indifferent to the concepts of mercy and reprieve. Each visit is a test, a dance with danger where the music is the sound of your own heart racing.

But let's go back to the beginning, to the basic experience of this treacherous realm. I remember the night clearly. The sky was a blanket of stars as I laid my head on the pillow, the faint murmur of my parents' voices blending into a distant cacophony that had long become the soundtrack of my evenings. I closed my eyes for what felt like a mere few moments, seeking escape in the world of dreams.

Suddenly, the familiarity of my room dissolved into a cold, wet embrace. I could feel the water, thick and up to my waist, the viscosity of it suggesting things unseen, things better left unknown, clinging to my skin. When I dared to open my eyes, I was met with almost complete darkness, the only light coming from the faint, eerie glow of plants scattered around the black expanse of water.

My heart pounded against my chest, the sound absurdly loud in the oppressive silence of the swamp. The water around me was alive with movement, gentle ripples cascading away into the gloom, betraying the presence of... something. I could feel eyes on me, creatures of the deep observing me, their intentions unreadable.

That's when it happened—a sharp, searing pain in my right leg, so intense it stole my breath away. Panicked, I reached down, my hands searching for the source of the agony. But there was nothing. No leg, no reassuring solidity of my own body. Just a void where my leg should have been, and the rush of warm blood clouding the water around me.

Overwhelmed by pain and shock, I succumbed to the swamp's murky depths. Darkness enveloped me as I was pulled under, the swamp claiming me as its own. And then...

Light. The mundane light of a new day, streaming through my window, pulling me back to a reality where my leg was still intact, but the echo of the pain still resonated through my body. I could hear the rise and fall of my parents' voices, their argument a stark reminder that some things never change.

I let out a heavy sigh, the weight of resignation settling on my chest. The sleepless swamp was not a new destination for me, and each visit had ended in a similarly abrupt and brutal manner. Dying there was a short, painful affair, each experience a stark reminder of the fragility of life—even a life lived in the shadows of dreams.

The Sleepless Swamp, I've learned, is a place of raw and unfiltered dread, a realm so wretched I wouldn't wish it upon the cruellest of souls. Yet, there's a strange poetry to its existence, and in a way, it has taught me about the depth of my own resilience.

Chapter 2: city of Mistakes

But let's shift to a lighter chapter of my nocturnal odysseys. I discovered something curious: the location and time I fell asleep influenced my destination in these spirit walks. It was during one of those nights when the tumult at home reached its peak—a cacophony of shouts and shattered dishes, culminating in the piercing sirens of police cars.

I slipped away, unseen, like a shadow disowning the night, and sought refuge in an old, abandoned skate park. The graffiti-stained ramps and rails wore their age like badges of honor, and I found a spot that promised a meager comfort. Curling up in the crook of a warped half-pipe, I succumbed to exhaustion.

That's how I first arrived in the City of Mistakes. It wasn't the abrupt violence of the swamp but a gradual awakening to a sunless sky, the air heavy with the taste of forgotten endeavors. The city stretched out before me, a vast canvas of ambition and despair. Towers that once scraped the skies were now stooped, bowing to the weight of their own follies. Streets that had thrummed with the promise of tomorrow were silent, save for the whispers of the wind through broken windows.