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In a dream, I saw a young woman in a red, large brimmed sun hat at a desk quickly typing on a golden, glowing typewriter. Every few moments, she would belly laugh about something she wrote.

Curious what could be so funny, I peeked over her shoulder and began to read.

To my horror, I discovered she was writing about me. Private things. Personal things. Things that I had forgotten. Things that were about to happen.

I realized I was in the presence of the one who decided my fate.

She was in control.

So, I strangled her and pushed her dead body out of her desk chair.

The room without her constant chortling seemed very empty and quiet.

I sat to type wondrous things like big lotto wins, true love, a cure for my father’s cancer.

Then, I noticed the keys having been rubbed for thirty six years were blank.

Fear that I would press a wrong letter and ruin my destiny overtook me.

I did not know what to type.

What would my life be like with no omnipresent narration?

What would my life be like with no one in control?

I woke up with the sun that morning with a determined smile and my freedom.