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.