The Prophecy

The hallway is packed with students, cheesy smiles and tasteless clothes. I like to come here, and act, as if one of them. But sometimes I stand in a faraway corner, in the shelter of irrelevant whispers and amplified ramblings of bipolar teachers, while my pen vandalizes full notebooks with more than philology. Like this day.
I enter the empty amphitheatre. Its proportions are incongruous, and yet fail to surprise me. On each side, the room fades into the distortion of distance, whereas the front black-boarded wall only stands a few feet away. The hard wood floor varnish has been worn into disappearance and the bare boards now stand parched for ink and muddy shoes. Neon light. The uncomfortable churchlike tables and benches are older than the dean. I sit down, anywhere. Faded names have been carved and then polished on their dark surfaces. The poorly updated infrastructure of a French monument.
Time passes. And no one shows up. Except a pretty ugly girl who tells me the lecture is cancelled, and closes the door as she goes. The empty room is now mine. Almost home.
But a strange roar comes from behind the black board. Hyper localized earthquake. A dazzling purple light suddenly erupts from the whole surface of the wall, like a veil of energy, and makes its way toward me. I do not move. It reaches my fingertips, and proceeds through my arms and legs, as if scanning me, as if scanning everything in the room. It does not hurt. Not until it gets through my brain.
The amphitheatre disappears behind a flash of light, and is then replaced by an infinite spread of dry crackled ochre earth and threatening blue sky. I am floating in midair, and I feel like the heart of the desert. A sharp wind blows around me, with a quality that is neither coldness nor warmness and yet very close to temperature. It bares the signature of the purple light. I feel my skin get thinner, and my bones stronger, my muscles gaining definition, while loosing suppleness. I want to cry, for I am seeing things in the wind, things I could ignore if only my eyes were smaller. Time flies in the wind, and knowledge presses against my lungs with every new blow, nourishes my every limb with more and more ipseity, floods my eyes with the odds of disillusion and discovery. I am with every millisecond more and less than I was the previous.
I wake up.
Such a long way to go.