Cellars and Dreams

         Drip...drip...drip...In the corner of the cellar, the dripping could be heard, the only sound in the dark, cold room. Stuffed with boxes and barrels of various goods, there was but one occupant; a young man, dirty from his years in the cellar, his eyes pale from the perpetual darkness. He moved, the chains on his arms and legs clanking slightly, as he adjusted himself against the wall, trying to get comfortable enough to sleep.
         He didn't like being awake much. Being awake meant he was a prisoner, not only to the cellar, but to his mind too. After all, a man can only take so much in such conditions before they began to crack; the constant solitude, the steady drip in the corner, the shadows playing with one's vision. And so, he kept his sanity by sleeping; for in his sleep, he was free, and in his dreams he could escape the cellar. He could breath the fresh air of the outside world, listen to the rustling of the trees and the chatter of a stream, feel the wind on his face and the earth against his skin. In his dreams, he could watch the clouds overhead, run as far as he wanted for as long as he desired, and be free. The waking hours brought only the silence of the stone walls, the coldness of the cellar and still darkness.
         He didn't remember how he had gotten there, let alone know of a way to get out. Try as he may, the trapdoor overhead wouldn't budge, and the stone was too strong to attempt to tunnel through. Many men would have gone mad in his situation; but he kept himself sane, by dreaming of the day when he would once again be free.