I allow myself to sleep because I am told to by those who might care about me. I sleep the way I live: for others.

I stand on a ship. Everything is bright, hot. I raise a hand to block the sun as I look up, but there is no sun, simply an eerie white glow to the sky. Light glances off the water and reminds me of crumpled tinfoil spread over the horizon. The ship suddenly pulls forward at blinding speed and I am thrown backwards. As my head slams into the deck the white dome above shatters like glass, revealing obsidian clouds dancing with lightning and fire. I flip over and curl into a ball to shield myself from the shards of light that fall so fast they whine and scream through the air. Moments pass, or years, and the whine subsides. I stand and look up to see countless pieces of paper drifting downwards, snowflakes against the chaos. They draw nearer as though pushed by some sinister consciousness, unaffected by the buffeting winds I am forced to brace myself against. I go numb as they converge, slamming together in a thunderclap, forming a book on the deck of my vessel. I step slowly forward, extending a hand to the tome before me. I leap away as it opens between heartbeats and green light tears into my flesh. The scent of decay and the stench of burning hair and skin flow through me, flooding my eyes with tears. I look down to the words now circling my hand and arm, coiled snakes, scarring me forever. I panic, backing away from the book that continues to open as the green aura expands, threatening to consume me along with my ship. Panic ceases to suffice as my vessel collides with an invisible force, exploding into splinters, and my momentum carries me forward to my fiery end.

Then time loses its grasp, and I hang in the air as though the world has forgotten me. The ship is no longer below me, nor the sky above, nor the horizon all around. The green flame, dancing before me, is both king and jester of this world. I open my mouth to ask a question, and the powerful ominous glow interrupts with an answer, an echo in my head seeking ears in the emptiness.

Who am I?
You are the geyser.
What do you mean?
You can if you are willing.
What can I do?
Nothing. Everything. You don’t really exist.
How can that be?
You are to blame.
I know.
You are not ready.
What will it take?
Nothing. Everything. You will be alone.
How do you know this?
A geyser is nothing without pressure.
Who are you?

The flame winks out. Blood becomes ice and my organs threaten to explode within my chill frame, the only intensity and heat of this void removed. I shiver, not from cold or from my death, but out of instinct, a gesture cast in genes. A silent sigh passes my split-chapped lips as I snap my fingers and a fire springs into life, inches above my open palm. I close my eyes for a moment as renewed warmth washes over the shell of my existence. A quiet indiscernible voice lets slip moans from the distance and I give a start. A torrent of memories surface from deep within, spawning a bitter regret, a sorrowful helplessness bathed in unfulfilled obligation to the ghosts. Indecision evolves, and action is born. I suppress all instincts before closing my fist, choking life from my tiny flaming grasp on life. I die cold and alone.

Then I wake up. I toss on a long-sleeved shirt, put my class ring on, and climb reluctantly to my feet.