"just saying it could even make it happen" - Kate Bush

The Word 'surreal' is defined as 'dreamlike' or 'the atmosphere or qualities evoked by surrealism'. However, who are we to say what is real and what is not? Maybe it is in our dreams that we really experience reality. Maybe it is that which we refer to as 'reality' which is the 'unreal'. [And yes, convolution seems to be my forte this evening.]

Entry 1 and 2 - I have yet to decide if time will have any meaning here so, at this stage, I shall not bestow a date upon the entries so as not to confine them to any particular moment. I have no way of telling if they appreciate such a gesture - but maybe they will drop me a line and let me know. While I am waiting to hear their opinion on the matter, I shall commence to write a story.

The Adventures Of Margaret

          - It was the time of the third moon when Margaret finally chose to turn left for the first time. It was not a decision easily made but, once she had committed herself to that particular course of action, she discovered that it was a relatively painless thing to do. In fact, it would have been completely painless if not for the unkind rock upon which she stubbed her toe. As she hopped resolutely upon her way, the incident brought to mind that old Ultravox tune - "Dancing With Tears In My Eyes". Margaret only hoped, as she hopped, that nothing would occur which would force her to recall "Running Up That Hill" by Kate Bush.

It was not that Margaret was unfit or that she recoiled from the suggestion of any form of physical exertion - no, she might not possess the super-slim figure of an anorexic catwalk model but Margaret could be fit when she wanted to be. It was just that, on this unusual evening, she wanted to concentrate on this new direction that her life seemed to be taking. She had still not worked out why she had turned left, but turned left she had and now she was almost eager to discover what lay before her. Not that she would probably discover much as, even though it was the third moon, it was still very dark.

However, not being one to be put off by an extreme lack of light and having already endured the pain and indignity of having injuring her toe, Margaret gamely limped on into the night.

As she staggered along the path which clung tenuously to the definition, Margaret idly mulled over her decision to turn left. Usually, on those occasional occasions when she found herself traipsing along dark pathways on equally dark nights, Margaret would turn right and, in doing so, would ensure that her travels concluded with her arriving in the small village where her humble home was located. Prior to this evening of unexpected decisions, Margaret had never considered for the briefest of moments that she should, instead, turn left. After all, she was just as aware as everybody else in her village - well, technically not 'her' village, but you know what I mean - that to select such a direction was to journey into realms dark and foreboding. And that was not a good thing. Or so everyone said. Not that anyone had ever traveled in that direction and returned to confirm that attitude. Maybe that was the crux of the matter - those few who had apparently wandered off to the left had never returned.

Margaret could not prevent an involuntary shudder from jarring her soul.

          Then she shuddered again, just for good measure. Casting her glance back over her shoulder, Margaret briefly considered returning to familiar paths well-trodden but, after retrieving her glance, she decided that since she had traveled this far she might as well see the journey to its conclusion. It was not that she was a person of an unnaturally brave nature or even that she was nonchalantly foolhardy - no, Margaret suffered from an insatiable curiosity which had only just awoken and was demanding to be fed. And this time, for reasons she would never truly understand, Margaret decided to satisfy its cravings.

Running her hand through her party hair - hair which was wild and untamed, and well renown for its ability to form excessively messy abstract arrangements at the drop of a hat, or even in response to the gentlest of zephyrs tousling it, usually at the most potentially embarrassing of times - and returned her energies to concertedly trudging along the narrow path.

She maintained her trudging for some time in the almost palpable gloom cast by a number of twisted and gnarled trees which appeared to be doing their best to gather together and form, at best, a small copse. Margaret thought to herself that they must be frustrated as they had not yet succeeded in doing so. She did not think that, should she ever be fortunate enough to return from this dimly-lit adventure, she would ever be tempted to return to such a desolate place for a picnic or even a leisurely Sunday stroll.