Posts Tagged ‘writing’

Where dreams go



I’ve always wanted to know what happens to dreams that don’t come true. Do they haunt their owners, a wandering stream of “if-onlys” floating in the back of their head? Are they flight proned, clogging the emptiness of space? Or do they simply stop to exist as soon as a complicated logarithm deems them unfeasible?

…And I wondered if I would find the answer if I wondered some more. That day I stopped wondering.

I volunteered to babysit my baby cousin who, at the time, was loosing his baby teeth. As soon as he felt asleep that night, I dressed up as a giant Mr. Potato Head and stood still. Hours went by, and surely a tiny tooth fairy cautiously appeared out of nowhere. You see, tooth fairies have the ability to turn invisible; they search the whole room for anything that could prove their existence. They can search for hours. Only, and I mean only, when they are sure that the area is clear do they show themselves. If they are caught, however, they can’t turn back invisible immediately. She mistook me for a giant toy, big mistake. I snuck up on her and grabbed her. I beat her to a pulse until she was willing to tell me everything. “ No, dreams that don’t come true don’t just disappear. But I don’t know where they store them, honest! She cried, I work for the moon goddess. She can tell you more.”

On the next full moon, I snuck into the city’s lab and got my hands on the multi billion dollars laser, a long time project that was nearing completion. I rotated it towards the sky and held it to the moon at gun point ( laser point). I called out to the moon goddess and demanded answers to my questions or the moon would get it. Surely she thought I was bluffing until I started the machine. Sooner than later she appeared to my eyes only, majestic in the moon-lit sky. She said “ you assaulted one of my fairies and now you’re threatening me and my prized possession. What do you want?” I told her that I just wanted to know where dreams go, those that don’t come true. “That’s all, she laughed, well we keep them in the back of the moon, on the side that’s never lit.” Apparently, only one side of the moon ever shines. She told me that for my persistence she would let me see it. She took me there.

I must say that I was disappointed when I got there. It was cold for one. But for all I thought it would be, it was nothing more than a field filled with working men and women. They all had a long wooden stick in their hands and they were beating on some small creatures. The lady of the moon told one of her workers to explain to me what they were doing. With that, she left. “ well son, these little creatures are you people’s dead dreams. Only they’re stubborn; they don’t want to believe that they’re dead. That’s why they keep surfacing back in your memories from time to time. So our job…well, our job is to kill them.” I was shocked, so I asked him, “ wouldn’t it be better,then, for us to stop dreaming”. He looked at me as if I were stupid. “ Hell nah, kid. Then I wouldn’t have a freaking job. I got kids to raise, and a family to feed” He turned his back, and took out his frustration on one of the small creatures.

So for you dreamers out there; those who, like me, ask “what if…” or wonder “ If only…” or think “One day…” I tell you to keep dreaming, keep living in your parallel universe; if not just for the sake of dreaming, then remember that by dreaming you are somehow helping to feed children who live on the unlit side of the moon.

The painting

The doctor’s office is a dark place and it’s not because of lighting issues. A warm smile is creepy, more so when it’s sincere. This is where I am, my prison of choice. It’s time like this when freedom doesn’t sound so rewarding. I start coughing. Ironically, I always get sick when I go to the doctors. It doesn’t help when others start coughing with me. I hold my breath until I can’t no longer, then I do it again, and again.

The room clears, and the creepy assistant lady tells me that I’ll be next. I freak out internally. She notices. She smiles and leaves. My blood pressure rises. I tell myself that it’ll be okay, that I’ll be okay. The tick tock of the clock frustrates me, it irritates me really. It isn’t safe to be alone….anywhere actually. I think of worst case scenarios, and think of best way to respond to them if they were to occur. Better safe than sorry, right?

I hear a distinct bang behind the doors where the scary doctors work. It sends a shiver crawling through my back. I rationalize it. A metal tool accidently fell on the ground. It happens. I breathe a little harder. I look up at the white wall to try and focus on something else. It’s then that I notice a painting.

I wonder how I could have ever missed those gold frames. The painting itself was quite simple. It was that of little girl in a field, a golden crop field that seemingly blended with the frames. The girl stood there in her white pajamas, the wind singing through her hair. She had vibrant dark hair. It had life on its own. The crops bent back, resisting the wind. The sky, in contrast, was lazy blue, like those days that take forever to start. There weren’t too many clouds but if you squint hard enough, you can barely see a flock of birds heading home. The girl stood there, centered on the left of the painting, her arms raised mimicking a scarecrow. She seems to be having the time of her life, a large smile plastered on her face.

My mind goes there. For once, I forget how creepy I thought this place was. And when the assistant comes back, I return her smile. She tells me that the doctor is ready to see me. I follow her, glancing back at the painting. The doctor’s office is prettier than I expected it. He gets up and closes the door behind me. He locks it. From behind his back, he pulls out a giant jagged edge sword with blood and hair still on it. He smiles and says “you’re next!”

Fathers’ menopause

I am tempted to follow her pain outside to cheer her up. I am tempted to pick her up when she falls down, but she says, “Daddy, I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
So I leave her to the city, the source of all evil. I leave her to her boyfriends, their blatant lies, and her fiancé. I leave her to the pervs, the stalkers, the sex offenders that infest the streets where she walks.
I let her go. She will be fine; she told me. And it’s ok because she can take care of herself.

Lucky people

She sat there on the sand, on the beach where she dragged me. She was crying, her eyes to the ground, her fingers drawing sad “smileys”. She started. She told me everything that was wrong in her life. Everything!
And as I hugged her and caressed her soft black hair, I thought of the many, many people that would make me cry like a baby if they had ever told me everything!