Play With Your Cells And Become Your Own Food [FICTOID]

You are standing in a clockwork city.  Ahead of you is a road paced with chimneys.

A psychic turns over a tarot card with a snowman on it.  “Your destiny is to become an archeologist,” he tells you.

Lavender bees swarm overhead.  You ponder them before saying, “Is this a dream?”

“A dream is as real as reality,” says the psychic.  “After all, what is reality but what we interpret our senses telling us?”

“Then drug or psychotic hallucinations are equally real?”

“I never said they weren’t,” says the psychic.  His mustache undulates in all the colors of the rainbow and then some.  You marvel at these colors you’ve never seen before, then you weep inwardly -- your tears piteously drenching heart -- knowing you can never share this joy, this terror with others simple because the language for it Is.  Not.  There.

A dog walks by on its hind legs, pulling a wagon filled with fortune cookies.

“Take on, taste one” the psychic says.

Though famished you maintain your dignity and your discipline, taking only one.

You crack it open as the dog walks off.

“Read it, realize it,” says the psychic.

“’All the world’s a stage and you are just a booster.’  What does that mean?” you ask.

The psychic cheerfully melts into a puddle of brilliant psychedelic hues.  “That’s why you need to become an archeologist,” he says with a fading Chesire cat grin.  “So you can dig up an answer.”   

© Buzz Dixon