Every alarm I set includes either the digit 3 or 7, and I frequently knock on wood (or my head when I can’t find any). Still, most of my thoughts are practical, founded on reason rather than a premise of fate. My recent rediscovery of a childhood riddle seemed, at first, to lack any practical origins. But then I did some thinking.

 

The exact wording of the riddle remains unclear, as it is based on hazy memories formed when I was five and could not be confirmed by my Google search attempt. It goes like this:

 

You’re dreaming. There is a scary castle in the distance, but your curiosity outweighs your fears, so you race towards the ominous fortress. As you run, a storm begins brewing beyond the horizon. There is no turning back now. What started as a daunting exploration has become a search for refuge—especially because there is a dragon chasing you. Finally, you come upon the massive castle doors, and enter the small, dark foyer with nothing but a set of stone spiral stairs. You rush to ascend as fast as possible, but after hundreds of steps you start to falter. After one thousand steps, you stumble onto a landing with three doors. From behind the leftmost you hear snakes hissing, from behind the middle you hear a chain-saw, so you choose the ostensibly safe, silent rightmost door. But once you enter, the door locks! There are no windows, no weapons, no way to open the door or penetrate the heavy stone walls surrounding you. How do you escape? 

 

The plot would change slightly with every playground retelling, each storyteller free to embellish the story with a second dragon, a fourth door, or another 10,000 stairs. The riddler succeeded, there on the playground, only if the listener posed countless questions at the end—what were the odds of a lightning strike? Were the walls soundproof? Were the snakes in the other room willing to form an alliance?  

 

The beauty lies in the simplicity of the answer: wake up. This is a dream, silly. From the very first line, which is often misheard or ignored, the storyteller reveals the ultimate escape—one that is not only completely within the listener’s control, but also renders every barrier created by the collective imagination utterly illegitimate.

 

This simplicity is one of the traits of childhood I miss most. My nostalgia is less a yearning to return to childhood, than a wish to regain the uncomplicated agency of a child. Kids may not decide when dinner is put on the table, but they are rarely tasked with making the meal—instead they spend the extra hour choreographing a dance for after-dinner entertainment, or impressing friends with riddles. While their choices are limited, children are not held back by thorough consideration before making a decision, leaving room for spontaneous bravery. Young ones do not pause to take out an umbrella when they see a storm coming. They sprint towards the castle. 

 

The riddle resurfaced in my consciousness late into the night in the midst of an intense midterms week. To combat my intensifying drowsiness, I took yet another study break, absentmindedly scrolling through my camera roll. Some of the pressure in my chest released as I studied a photo of my brother at 3 years old, posing just the way I had taught him to—one hand resting on a popped hip, tongue sticking out. My smile widened as I examined an image of my sister and I dancing in our childhood home in matching princess-style gowns. As my fingers touched the glass to brighten the photo, I swore I felt our joy seeping through the screen, accompanied by an utter absence of hesitation. 

 

At the sight of the next photo, my cheeks fell. In it, I stand alone, facing a tree with my head leaning on the trunk, sporting a precious pink dress. The image captures the beginnings of a round of hide-and-seek. My sister hides strategically beyond the frame as I finish counting to 30. I should be running any second now, but in the photo I stand frozen, my eyes squeezed shut, my mind filled with a stream of ascending numbers.

 

I shut off my phone, brushed my teeth, and went to sleep. 

 

The next day, my friend and I set off for a stroll and coffee to break up the monotonous hours of studying. En route, the conversation turned to my childhood pastime of telling riddles. Expecting this to be a relatable experience, I started telling the first riddle that came to mind—You’re dreaming. There is a scary castle in the distance—which once attracted crowds on the elementary school playground. 

 

Her failure to recognize the pivotal first line showed me that I’d found a proper audience. So, I proceeded with the rest of the tale. The story felt strange on my tongue, prompting vivid memories—the distinct smell of wood chips, the subtle sassiness of my step as I raced to find new classmates to bamboozle. I had an inkling this recollection had come to me for a reason.

 

“Do you give up?” I nagged, washing the strange feeling down with the final sip of my comparatively grown-up coffee. I revealed the easy answer, to her frustration, and we returned to our seats on the third floor reading room. I took out my planner and stared at my to-do list, waiting. For what exactly, I don’t know. 

 

I often struggle in this static state. Exasperation over my incapacitation only fuels further adrenaline pumping, muscle tensing, and head spinning, all untethered to specific tasks. The pressure to adequately complete assignments is hard enough without wasting additional energy worrying about why I have yet to start them. 

 

I find myself entranced by my lengthy to-do list, quite like the younger version of myself continuously counting in a frozen frame, or the listener of the riddle searching for clues in lines that merely feign importance. I remain petrified in the face of the dark storm up ahead, convinced there is nothing to be done. The feeling is only ever momentarily debilitating, but in the moment it always feels so dramatic. 

 

Luckily, this pressure subsides as quickly as it builds. A brief stroll through my camera roll inspires me to embody the spontaneous bravery of a child. Taking a walk with someone I love reminds me that what often feels oppressive is no more tangible than a dream—it is futile to panic over finding a way out.

 

No more counting. It’s time to open my eyes. 

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