The first time I had a lucid dream, I thought to myself, “This must be how God feels.” I was the master of my own world. I imagined it, and it was done. I wanted a beautiful girlfriend, and she was there. I wanted a delicious steak, and it was there. The world was mine, to do with as I will.

So different, my life in my dreams, from the life that I live, the sterile nine-to-five grind of the office, the empty apartment, the silent, tasteless meals of hamburger helper, eaten alone. Every day, another grey monotony of desperation and despair, of soul-killing ennui.

I don’t think I’ll go back.

If you’re reading this note, you’ve gotten my message, and you’ve come over to check up on me. You’re probably seeing the bottle of pills right now, and my silent, dreaming body laying on my bed. You can take me to the hospital, hook me up to the machines, or you can just let me fade away and die in peace.

The only thing I ask is, please don’t wake me up. Better to be God in my dreams than nothing in real life.