Day 1

Well, I’ve never expected this to happen. I’m just standing there, minding my own business, when all of the sudden POOF. I’m in a lab. And not just any lab mind you! I’m in the psychoanalysis lab of the one and only Dr. Charles Lyman, master of that which can be known, thought about, or even completely imagined. Everything is white like a quintessential enamel coating. The air is dry and in motion, thanks to so many ventilation systems. The gentle whir keeps my mind calm, which is a very good thing right about now. And if you can believe it, I’m now seated on a maroon, leather armchair with dark, smooth, wooden handles. I stick out like a…well…a guy on a dark maroon chair in the middle of a white room (writer’s block. Forgive me!).

But mind you, whoever you are, this is completely ridiculous and simply cannot be true. Why, do you ask? BECAUSE DR. LYMAN ISN’T A REAL PERSON. Neither is this room, or this chair, or the fact that I’m here. I WROTE this. I CREATED this. What absurdity! I must be 100% hallucinating due to lack of sleep. I’m going to start looking around for some sign that I’m not losing my mind, BRB.

Yeah, just kidding. I’ve lost it. This room is absolutely perfect, down to every detail! His green, worn journal is his white, desk drawer is filled with every word I had ever wrote that he wrote. HE wrote what I wrote. Is this just something that happens to authors? You write a bunch of stuff, and then one day a shoebox arrives and you’re pulled into your own stories? Sheesh, my head hurts. 

I’m going to do my best to keep on writing here, in the hopes that if I have totally lost my mind, and am fully imagining this, someone can find this journal on my person and read about everything I think I’ve seen. Should make for an interesting read, at the least…

I’ve made a full scan of the room, and there’s no sign that the doctor’s been here any time recently, but I’m starting to get incredibly famished. I’ve located a pen knife for protection, and now plan to leave the room in hopes of acquiring sustenance. Goodbye, fine red chair! Perhaps you can transport me home again, when the time is right. Until then, I go…

Oh, and according to my book, the year is 2089, so…I guess that’s now. Well, how about that?