A TUNNEL OF IMAGINATION

A bus was traveling along a snow-covered mountain road. After an overnight snowfall, the road was almost impassable, causing the bus to travel at a slow speed for the past two hours. Mountain peaks slowly drifted past the windows, and the wind piled white sand dunes along the road.

The bus's passengers were seven well-known fantasy writers, returning from a meeting where awards for their work were presented. Throughout the journey, the group engaged in a lively discussion about the past few days and the shared experiences they had shared. They had gotten to know each other well and developed a mutual fondness for each other.

The bus was just approaching a mountain tunnel, beyond which the descent into the lowlands was about to begin. Within the next hour, it intended to safely reach the town where the plane was waiting at the airport. Everyone was smiling and cheerful, though undoubtedly tired from numerous meetings with their fans. Each of them was already lost in thought in their studio, where they could once again devote themselves to their work, the art of inventing worlds that, for them, was a truer life.

However, during their meetings with their readers, they confirmed to everyone that they were, in fact, writing about reality, but dressed in different colors. And this truth, which they hadn't discovered themselves, but which gave them a sense of extraordinaryness, made them feel distinguished in the world around them.

Most of them had already passed the peak of their fame, moments great and small. And the world had already read thousands of their books.

Let's take a closer look at one of them. It was John Lee. A 43-year-old man with only a few published books behind him, but who had already taken readers by storm. He sat slightly to the side, next to a gray-bearded man with a snoring breath, and only occasionally intervened in the discussion taking place nearby. The journey they had already traveled had worn him down, and he had only just woken from sleep, feeling as if his life had only just begun. His eyes now wandered out the window, where winter was blanketing the world in snow. He saw in what he observed the beginning of something he would surely soon write about. He liked to weave his own real-life experiences into his fantastical tales.

The others accepted him as an equal… Bluebeard, Professor Dixon, the painter Keller, the alluring black-haired Sara, and the red-haired priest Norman, with his extraordinary attention to detail. He stood somewhere just behind them, though he was not far behind them in the art he created.

After a few moments, the bus slowed even further, and the driver sounded the horn. This simultaneously activated the tunnel lights they were entering. It became very bright, and the white space around them was filled with concrete structures and the hum of the engine reverberating off the walls. The driver pressed the accelerator, now able to ignore the weather, and the wide, empty road was safe and perfectly visible. The passengers glanced out the window briefly, but made no comment on where they now found themselves.

Our John seemed to become a little nervous, though he had no particular reason to be. For a moment, he became the topic of discussion, so he interjected a few important words and once again focused on the white line painted on the side of the tunnel. For a moment, he tried to think back to the previous days, but strangely, he couldn't remember much. It was as if those days hadn't even happened, even though they had been talking about them constantly.

For most of the journey, nothing disturbed their carefree and pleasant atmosphere. Only at about the 7th kilometer, as the bus was traveling around a slight curve, did the driver slam on the brakes as an unfamiliar fork in the tunnel appeared ahead. He remembered having driven this route many times before, but he had never seen anything like it before. It was impossible that an additional branch had been built on the road recently. Nevertheless, not wanting to alarm the passengers, he chose the right branch, a continuation of the curve, and they continued on.

Our main passenger, whom we are dealing with more closely, noticed the only side tunnel, and something told him to remember something. He couldn't quite put his mind to it, however, because he was called back into the discussion and had to answer another question that was troubling the group.

After several long minutes, the driver became anxious, as the tunnel should have ended long ago. They had already covered over 12 kilometers! He stopped the bus abruptly and wondered what to do next. He looked at the somewhat bewildered passengers and for a moment couldn't say anything.

"Why aren't we going?" the red-haired priest asked.

"Is something wrong?" the painter Keller interjected

. "No... I guess not, but the tunnel should have ended a long time ago. I've been driving this way for years, and it's never been like this before?! At least, that's what I think.

" "Do you think so, or are you sure?" Keller asked

. "I haven't been sure of anything for a few moments now...

" "I don't believe in miracles, that the tunnel could suddenly get longer. Keep going, we'll get somewhere eventually. Unless we can turn around?" Professor Dixon suggested.

The driver frowned and looked at the gear shift.

"That's impossible, it's too narrow, and I can't turn around. Plus, the bus's reverse gear is broken..."

"Yes, that's to be expected!" shouted Professor Dixon.

"Go on!" the graybeard urged the driver.

The driver nodded and started the engine. They continued on, though slowly now, with their attention focused on the windshield. The tunnel began to wind in a serpentine pattern, and there wasn't a single long section ahead. They covered another 5 km, but they didn't notice any significant changes on the road.

Our hero now began to remember something, a detail from his life. But his thoughts were forestalled by the graybeard sitting next to him.

"Don't you think that would make a fascinating subject for a story?" "A tunnel to another world, a merging of two parallel realities? It's so simple and obvious... But wait, haven't I read something like that before?" He adjusted his glasses and narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.

Our hero's heart began to beat faster. He remembered the moment he wrote a story on this very topic. He didn't want to reveal it to anyone yet, dismissing it as a mere coincidence. He couldn't recall any other facts from that period.

The bus driver kept glancing back at the passengers, as if they might know anything more about what was happening. However, they had little choice but to continue. At one point, the graybeard, overcome by a thought, called out loudly.

"Driver, stop!"

The woman sitting with them, the only woman present, asked worriedly.

"Is something wrong? Will this delay our return?"

"Maybe we should get off the bus and walk back to the starting point? There are telephones there; we'll call whoever needs to, and they'll come pick us up," Dixon said. "It's

over 30 km," the driver explained.

In any case, they all got off the bus to see for themselves what an extraordinary place they were in. The graybeard fixed his eyes on John and said,

"Yes, now I'm sure, you wrote about the tunnel of imagination, right?"

Everyone focused on John, surrounding him in a circle.

"So what if he wrote something like that?" "It's just a story, isn't it?" Dixon replied.

"Now he had to tell them everything, even though he couldn't quite grasp what he saw in his head.

"It's true, I wrote something similar many years ago. I described a group similar to us and a forking tunnel. Everything so far fits, as if someone had opened my book and read it aloud," he said incredulously.

"Tell us the story, maybe we can come up with something then," Keller asked

. "Are you crazy or what? We're locked in a tunnel we don't know how to get out of, and you want to tell each other stories?" the graybeard objected. "It's impossible for the tunnel to have no end and the story described in the book to have any meaning."

The priest standing closest to the bus folded his hands and began to speak aloud.

"Lord, who brought us here, deliver us from uncertainty..."

But no one was listening; faith was irrelevant to the rest

. "The tunnel should have ended long ago. It's exactly 10,124 meters long, and along its route, it's practically a straight road with no deviations. And we're definitely not in the place I know, but I'm certain we entered it," the driver explained. After a moment, he boarded the bus and brought back a crumpled copy of the book. The title stood out clearly on the still-glossy cover: "Tunnel of Imagination."

"Can I have your autograph?"

John practically froze. He picked up a pen and wrote the dedication. At that very moment, the graybeard snatched the book from his hands and nervously began flipping through the pages.

"This can't be a coincidence!" he exclaimed.

"You've gone mad! You have some kind of obsession. There must be some real explanation for all this?" "We're not a story invented by one of us!" cried Professor Dixon.

"Stop arguing!" cried the woman.

"God... bless this place..."

He suddenly realized he knew more about them all than he had previously suspected. All the words and thoughts he'd heard during their conversation, as well as other details from their lives, were clear and familiar to him. He felt a cold sweat and numbness grip his body. How did he know all this? How did he know so well things he shouldn't know?"

"You don't have to read, I can tell you what happens next," he finally said. "The story concerns a group of futurologists on their way to a symposium. They don't know each other as well as we do, but they've dedicated their lives to scientifically predicting the future of humanity. Therefore, they can be compared to us in some way. We, too, create the future, but we don't always base our decisions on scientific facts. The story I wrote, however, was part of a longer story." What I didn't include concerned certain events experienced by each of you. Who we were and what we did before fate brought us together. So, in truth, I created you all, and you are merely my imagination. And the world we exist in doesn't truly exist. It's a fabrication, an illusion of time and space that we experience. We don't exist, none of us has any future. Our story ends here, in this place," he said in one breath. "

There's only one but, which I don't understand. Only a moment ago, looking into the tunnel, did I remember all this. Even that I'd written something similar."

There was a moment of silence. The truth he revealed to them was comforting to no one.

"You're mocking us! You think we're your invention? The world we inhabit is yours too? So how do you explain that we see and feel all this? There must be something real. Some kind of reality, if we're a figment of reality. So you don't exist either; we didn't just come from nowhere!" the graybeard exclaimed. "

Let's calm down and think logically. Surely everything can be explained in a completely simple way," Keller said

. John, however, no longer had any doubts. In his head, unknown and hidden thoughts suddenly began to speak to him. He had no control over the voices he heard and the images he began to see. He felt faint and briefly nauseous.

"Are you okay?" Sarah asked solicitously.

He shook his head and took a deep breath, which improved his mood.

"Let's try to approach this scientifically. There are no things in nature that can't be explained. Nothing happens out of nowhere." "There are no consequences without causes," Dixon

said. "He knew it would be difficult to explain everything to them. He didn't believe it himself yet. He had to find a way out of this situation now, because he seemed to be the key to the truth. But would he be able to convince them of something that wasn't even clear to him?" Sara wiped tears from her eyes, the priest gazed at the concrete ceiling, and the others seemed no less in control.

In an instant, his consciousness, plucked from nothingness, was gripped by a thought that terrified him. Something within him unlocked again, and he saw within himself more previously unknown thoughts.

"This will seem impossible and utterly absurd to you, but I know that we live as figments of someone's imagination, on the brink of someone's death. I have become the key to it, and I constitute the link, some connection between life and fiction. But I don't really know anything, I don't know what the ultimate truth is. But I feel more and more that I am not a real person, and none of us is." Someone invented me, then in his mind ordered me to write other people's stories for him. So I invented you, creating the illusion of your lives. Don't ask how or why, because I don't know myself, and I don't know the reasons.

For a moment, everyone fell silent, searching within themselves for confirmation or denial of what they had heard.

"How does the story end?" Keller asked.

"Futurologists, unable to explain their situation, gradually descend into madness and perish, overcome by paranoia," he explained.

"No... Tell me you're lying... My children and my husband are waiting for me at my house," Sara said hysterically.

"Can you tell me anything more about them? Any details about their lives? Other than the fact that you have them and that you live together in a small house on the outskirts of a large city?"

The woman considered this and delved into herself. After a moment, she burst into even more tears, for in her past she saw complete emptiness and nothingness. Now, each of them tried to recall episodes of their own lives. However, they found nothing within themselves that was their past.

"God must have a purpose in all this. Nothing happens without a purpose, and if it's God's will, let's accept it with dignity," said the red-haired priest. "

Father, stop talking nonsense!" cried the irritated driver, who tore the book from the graybeard's hands and clutched it to his chest.

"If we want to get anywhere, we must either accept what you told us or reject it. Let's make a decision," said Keller

. "Okay, let's accept this absurd version. So what if we don't remember anything about our lives? If we're still here and feel our existence, then this means that this isn't the last page. Perhaps our existence depends on what we do now." "Let's write a sequel, if the story ends here?" the graybeard asked, as if accepting the truth. "

And I have to do it? After all, since even I am a figment and an illusion, I didn't invent any of this myself, even though I'm aware of it.

" "But you are the link. The link between us and the one who created us. Don't you feel his presence?"

He peered into the depths of his thoughts. His reality seemed unimportant to him, and he wanted it to end. He saw strange images within himself, unknown places and people. Something that wasn't his life, something that revealed only a fraction of the truth to him.

"You've all gone mad! People, do you realize how mad and senseless you're falling into? None of what you're talking about can be true. Please... let's wait this out. I'm willing to go back 30 kilometers and prove you wrong!" Professor Dixon exclaimed, exasperated.

He wanted to believe what he heard, but he was aware of something completely different. And he had to convince others of this and make them accept it with their heads held high. Perhaps there was still some further history for them? Life must be beautiful, after all, since it endows people with minds. Perhaps someone is still writing their story and wondering what to do with them next? What if he didn't like the story? What if what his imagination suggested didn't correspond to his intentions? Such texts, after all, were thrown in the trash. But since he himself was part of the unknown that created this world, perhaps he could do something about it?

The graybeard boarded the bus and brought him a laptop, on which he seemed to have jotted down various ideas during the journey.

"In every story, there's a protagonist, and the reader experiences the world through their eyes. That's why the next step is up to you. And I just hope this is a story with more than one ending. Now, write whatever happens and pulls us out of this abnormal situation. Let's find out who we really are."

He looked into their eyes. They hoped he could influence their surroundings and their thoughts. But whose thoughts were these, and did they want anything more from them? Do they still need them for something?

John picked up his laptop and typed a question on the screen.

"Are you there? Whoever and wherever you are?" he asked, not expecting any answer. Because surely his existence couldn't possibly have a mind. If he existed, he was part of someone's imagination. And yet, a moment later, to his surprise and the surprise of those around him, a text appeared on the screen, written in careless handwriting.

"Is this really you, my dream? Which of my revelations are you from?"

"The tunnel of imagination, does that tell you something?"

"Ah...from there...This is my most successful story yet. As if I were writing it with unknown partners...Yes. Are you all there? It's a pity I've stopped writing. It was such an extraordinary experience, being able to do something different than everyone else around them.

Until that moment, they had thought things could be different, and that everything happening around them was just a bad, abnormal dream. Now, the letters and writing they remembered so well, emerging from somewhere deep within themselves, confirmed them in this sad truth.

"We don't know who we really are, and we are searching for the truth about ourselves. You must help us, because we exist because of you. Whatever and whoever our consciousness exists in, and by whom it was born. Explain to us, explain our presence."

Now, in addition to the words they saw, everyone felt something within themselves that only John had felt before. Someone unknown to them burst into convulsive laughter in their thoughts.

"My imagination, as you can imagine. But an extraordinary imagination, one that has become reality on a piece of paper." She separated from me and entered into something unknown, something I had unknowingly discovered.

But I no longer know her, and I no longer have her. I no longer write, though I have longed to do so for years. My inspiration has left me, my visions have left me. If I still have any, I cannot see them. But since I am in contact with you? Something inside me is clearly still alive and seeking a return.

"Come up with something to help us. Finish our story or continue it!

" "Come up with it yourself and make my imagination return to me," they saw the inscription. "I can't do it anymore, but you still can. After all, you are outstanding writers; you are me, the me I always wanted to be and the me I never was.

"We are, after all, only a thought..."

"You are a collection of thoughts about me and my lost mind. I can no longer accomplish anything on my own. Only you can help me return to a normal perception of the world, but also complete myself. I am fighting for myself now... for my existence. To avoid being considered hopeless. Do you know what happens to people like me? They can never return. In fact, I'm surprised I still hear anyone? Perhaps you are simply my fantasy, my madness and nonexistence? Surely I can't have someone else inside me and be normal? Anyway, do what you want. I don't really know if I want to be the same again."

They felt a shock all around them. As if the reality they felt was beginning to dissolve and lose its stability.

"How so?

" "Have I written the concept of mental illness into your imagination? Do you know what a psychiatric facility is? In Reality, I am in just such a place. Deprived of my own personality. I no longer have contact with my life and the world." And it treats me as a finished human being. All because my imagination abandoned me. It hid within me, and I can't find it. But it's there, it revealed itself, part of the story I once created. You ask why? I can't answer that question. Sometimes a person has had enough and withdraws into themselves to escape. What I was doing was the only meaning of my life. When it was gone, it was as if I had already died alive.

Sarah groaned, the priest began to pray even louder. Bluebeard cursed… the others expressed their extreme feelings aloud. The tunnel above them trembled, and cracks appeared in the walls.

John tried to understand the tragedy their creator was experiencing. Since they were a conscious and living part of him, they had a duty to help him.

"This is utter absurdity! We exist as a figment of a madman's imagination!" Bluebeard exclaimed.

"He wasn't one yet when he wrote us. If we want anything left in us, we must help him. Each of us is a part of his personality. His dreams, abilities, knowledge, and faith." "He is everything our group is individually," John said, trying to evoke sympathy for the person they existed in.

"What do we want our ending to be?" Professor Dixon asked.

"Or perhaps a beginning?" Keller added. "Paint us on the screen... create our portrait.

" "Lord... save my master...

" "Write that the bus finally found its way through the tunnel. That it left for the sunny valley. And you started writing and became an even more famous writer... Then the sea over there, who is you and us, will come back to life and regain their mind and imagination," the graybeard urged him.

"And let's hope he writes a sequel for us... Because life has meaning... I'd like to finally meet my husband, see what kind of children I have. Are they similar to what I feel?" Sara said.

John nodded and wrote a few sentences. After a moment, they noticed something changing around them. The tunnel was no longer winding, but completely straight. At its other end, they saw the pale light of day.

He began writing a story that logically explained everything. He included himself and his feelings within it. After a moment, he handed the computer to the graybeard, who added his own piece of the story. Now, one by one, everyone joined in, merging their personalities into one. Finally, they felt a hint of warmer air around them, and music began playing somewhere around them.

"Let's get in. Time to go home," John said, pleased with the results of their work.

The bus restarted the engine and, a moment later, it emerged from the tunnel onto a sunny plain covered with green grass. Below, the city and life were visible. Everyone already knew that their world wouldn't end after all. And if it did, it wouldn't be at that moment. Imagination would rewrite it if it managed to return to where it came from. They hoped that the reality they had never experienced would create a life worth knowing.

They would soon disembark the bus, and a new story would begin for them. A story they would experience as vividly as the moments that had passed. For the imagination that created them turned out to be a living, extrasensory existence. It was a separate entity within someone else's. They looked at each other and burst out laughing. Somewhere beyond their perceptions, someone was coming back to life.