They had me in a corner and ganged up on me. A team of guidance counselors wearing black turtlenecks, black Dickies, black wingtips, wristwatches, and spotlessly clean spectacles. Their voices harmonized in a harsh baritone chorus: Biscello (ohhhh…ohhhhh…sounded the echo)—what about your future? Have given any thought to your future? What are you planning for the future? I was cornered. There was about a dozen of them, and their unform blackness affected a menacing air. Normally, when they had me in this position (they got me like this every so often), I’d smile sheepishly or issue a smart-alecky answer, and wait for them to go away, but this time I heard myself saying, as if reading perfectly rehearsed lines from an inner-script: The future, my guidance-counseling friends, is not some down-the-road place, not a designated X on the timeline—the future is inside of us, ripening and growing. As for me, I’ve been building my future, word by word, sentence by sentence, story by story—my future exists in these words, these writings. I’m not waiting on the future, I’m building it. It exists, now, and will continue to grow and come into its own.

I felt relieved and satisfied, but not in a smug or self-righteous way. I just felt good that I had announced the future to the guidance counselors, or rather the future had announced itself through my voice. I figured after my clear and confident proclamation, the guidance counselors would disappear, but they didn’t. They looked at each other—mystified, puzzled—then huddled together as if coming up with an alternate plan. The huddle broke up, and again the baritone chorus, this time with more snarl and bite—We, the guidance counselors, are charging you with the crimes of solipsism, egomania—bordering on megalomania—heightened delusionality, fraud, and self-negligence. I was taken aback. Based on what evidence, I asked. One of the guidance counselors took out a tiny black tape recorder and played back the speech I had made about the future. When it was done, he clicked off the recorder. The counselor said—I believe those words will serve as enough evidence to render a guilty verdict.

This dream was not turning out the way I had expected. My mind raced. Should I beg for mercy? Plead ignorance or insanity? Tell them I had Peter Pan syndrome and demand to be charged as a minor?

Guidance counselor chorus—Would you like to say anything before we take you in?

My anxiety suddenly passed and I felt supremely serene. I spoke quietly, but with confidence—Counselors, the future has announced itself. You, like everyone else, like everything, will be written, therefore part of the future. Whether you condemn me and send me away for a long, long time, or break out into cheer and applaud my words and deeds, you will be written. What you do with me is your choice. What I do with me is mine.

I’d like to say that’s when I woke up, but I know the dream continued on without me. One of these days I’ll return to that dream, already in progress, and see what’s become of us all.