Tiptoe Tiptoe

“You look so cute sitting in your boat.”

This, my lovely reader, is being written with me on my belly. I’m messing with my eyelids in the dark at two-fortysomething in the morning and I can’t sleep because I had tragically used my body clock as a plaything; I am the girl with the red bowtie you’ll see at the nearest playground. My pillow reminds me of vampires and one nightmare I had years ago – one I couldn’t forget.

It was a dream painted in black and white, a melancholic one, a fearsome one in color and silence. I don’t really remember anything besides what qualified it as a nightmare; it was an episode of two characters who surprisingly were Mickey and Minnie Mouse. Twisted it was, horrifying and quiet and eerie, when Mickey produced a gun out of nowhere (Oh where did you get that, dude?) and shot his beloved darling spontaneously. I really can’t fathom the whole thing. And I also don’t understand why I’m writing this down. It didn’t really horrify me, honestly; I was insouciant about it to be honest. I don’t know if Mickey Mouse would do that if he wasn’t created kid-friendly. It was melodramatic in a way that made itself screw onto my head and bid to probably never depart. Eh, perhaps I just watched too much Disney that time. It was also, possibly, an omen to my newfound admiration for fictitious violence and gore. Yay!

Now I’m on my butt with my legs tangled in a lotus, half of my body ensconced in a blanket, thinking of maybe continuing reading that pending (but not inveterately abandoned) John Green book which is currently placed amidst other books and a laptop in the darkness of the other room. Here are some facts most people don’t know (that are related to me, ehehehehehhhe): A. I sleep with my headphones squeezed in between two pillows – one pillow being the comfy nest of hobo/hermit head. B. There is a dreamcatcher pinioned to the ceiling in one corner of the bedroom. (Psst, it hasn’t been helping, really.) C. I am an Instragram freak, xoxo. You can erase Instagram from the whole sentence too and it would still be true.

I should try to sleep now. Good night/morning/afternoon, darling; I bid you adventure some night.

An Escapist's Flight

“Do you miss them?”

The crickets sung with the twinkling of the stars, pushing away any silence left. The cold air gripped on my skin, licked the strands of dry hair away from my eyes. I could feel the ocean under my fingertips, conducting the waves the moon didn’t pull anymore. The ignition of contentment burst through me and dared to tickle the corners of my mouth. I didn’t feel lonely because the violet sky was there. The magic was there. The happiness was there. I could taste the glitter on my tongue so pronouncedly.

“Miss who?” I inhaled a tank of air through my nostrils, savoring the infectious smell of heavenly butterfly wings and wet bamboo, doing my best to remember. I cherished the sound of wind chimes below me, under the roof. The shadows projected on the tress buzzed aloud with the lively lullabies of the night, caring only for the sad, torturous hymns of the faraway lands. I still felt the cold tears screeching down my face. Haunting, fresh, little openings carelessly cut open.

An escapist’s dream come true was the never-ending loneliness a lifetime could bring. Reality wasn’t life for me; it was a trap I recklessly fell in. Lured by the curiosity eating my vision, I tested my survival in the social beings of earthly minds, synchronizing all their bare wants and aspirations. My eyes were red with the cruelty of things unseen. Unseen by society, puzzled and misunderstood and excoriated perhaps.

Nothing will ever be better than an escape for an escapist.

“Friends. Family.” Again, the ocean waves tugged under my toughened fingertips, but like a flame they burned through the horizons I have seen from afar. The days have been submersed for too long and are almost unfamiliar even through the transparency of the water.

It felt like I just woke up.

“No,” I whispered, hugging myself, scratching my sides, “I don’t.”

“Why not?” The thunderous boom quaked and convulsed, stunning my ribs and flicking on the sad electricity in my eyes, whispering all the hundreds of echoes of reminiscence to my eardrums. The shrill feeling of being yanked back into the state I would rather not be in traumatized all I was.

I shouted back, “This is where I belong!” Strong and sure. Nervous, I laughed. Curse nightmares, curse nightmares, curse nightmares, curse…

“Is it, really?” Shivering. “Wake up now.”

“No.” Wails.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

“No.” No, no, no. No.

“Awake.”

“No!” Please.

“AWAKE!”

“NO!”

Darkness.

Being a dreamer wasn’t always easy. The dawn of physical consciousness to the reality of “life” was like the breaking of glass at a bank. Unwanted screaming and adrenaline, shock, fear. I missed the beginning of dozing off and the unrealistic pictures of fantasy. It was gone too soon and too fast. Not being connected to home was being dead.

“Wake up.” The nightlight was on, and mother tried to pull me out of bed.

The Dreamer and The Angel

wake up, wake up, wake up


I rub the sparkly dust off of my eyes, stretching myself across the mattress. I could feel the vibration of the bed, and I feel funny.

I open my eyes to the unreal scene before me. This doesn’t look like my room; the walls are painted white, but colored with flashing strobe lights that look like unnatural lightning. I see vines climbing up the tall walls, crawling to cover the ceiling. And now I see monkeys outside from my spot on the bed, through the huge window at one side of the room.

I still feel funny. Everything feels funny. I can even taste something funny. I cough, and out goes blue glitter from my system.

Up above my head, the vines separate, and they give me access to watch the running sky. Blue, indigo, red, purple, black. A star falls on my upper lip. I lick it off. I could taste something like the combination of sweet, sweet caramel and ink-spoiled blood.

I am sitting already when the hospital blanket wraps around me like a fierce snake, hinting to suffocate with a short twist. I’m afraid. Panicking, I struggle with fear as the blanket won’t drop dead, and instead curl around my alarmed body like it was my cocoon. The strobe lights stop flashing. They suddenly bring in the amber glow. I'm dying, so I lie back on my bed… and close my eyes.

Next thing I know when my eyelids get unscrewed is that I’m not at the same place. Fireflies dress me from head to toe in my pajama wear. I scream, but it’s too late. They dissolve into my skin. My scalp, my fingernails, my joints. I collapse to the ground on my knees, gripping the damp grass underneath me. It starts raining, and I shriek as the ice cold drops kiss the back of my neck and trail to my lips, freezing there like they want me to stop emitting noise. I press my palms onto the grass and tear it away from the wet soil. I dig my nails into the ground. I glow.

The glow is a yellow green. And it enters the earth. I think I’m going back to normal, but no. I just keep glowing brighter and brighter along with the world in my eyes. Everything, except for the sky, is now drenched in the color of starlight. It almost looks permanent.

I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired. But I’m also being driven by a power that won’t leave me no matter what I want. I cry tears of the evening stars. It’s still pouring.

I don’t know anything else. But I do know that I get sucked into the ground.

God help me. I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m faaAAAAAAAAaaalling. Butterflies try to catch me, but I’m too heavy for their stitched-up wings to carry. The sound of violins and thunderstorms flow into my ears. I let out another high-pitch shriek, feeling my stomach fold into the smallest origami to be ever made. It’s useless flailing my arms towards every direction when there’s nothing to stop gravity as it works.

But then, of course, I stop falling. The unexpected always happens.

Someone is drying my closed eyelids with their smooth hands, carrying me with the softest feathers ever. I whimper when I feel hard cement under me. Safety, does that mean?

I open my eyes. I’m introduced to the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. So shy. So violet. So bright. So wondrous. Those eyes tell the story of life. And maybe, if I could stare into it more, I could see the future in them. I want to see the future in them. I want to see my future in them.

I’m being too hopeful again. I’m wanting too much again. Because the angel steps back and shoots up to the sky. A few of its milky white feathers leave in its wake. Dreamy. It hurts. It hurts perniciously.

When I wake up, everything is normal. Too normal.

And I wish I was dreaming again instead.

Wake Me If You're Out There

Life. It brings a lot to us. I sometimes worry that when I die, my grandchildren would just forget about me. After a day or a week of tears, memories are long forgotten and my name wouldn’t be mentioned at all. I could sometimes be a worrier. I was never an optimist. But I won’t ever let myself be categorized as a pessimist. But I like to think about the future at times. And maybe what life could be to me if technology wasn’t everywhere and I was older and more adventurous.

“I imagine living in a red, broken house, positioned near the seashore of an abandoned island. The stars cry to me their secrets and sing me lullabies I have never heard before. The waves are calm and the wooden floor beneath me is connected by rusty, old nails. But I know they won’t betray me because we’ve been best friends for soooo long. The seagulls passing by tell me stories and their names. I’ve kept a list of names: Ruby, Angel, Morpheus, Whimper, Boom, and Box. They’re heading for the south and had promised me they’ll visit me again someday. Soon, they have sworn to me.”

I have no fireplace. I only have my little sailboat and this house. The weather is fickle. I sleep on the roof of my house, only at night. I stargaze and greet my friends. They twinkle and silhouette me, asking me questions high school friends enjoy asking. My skin is sun-kissed and my feet are shoeless. My knees are black and blue because I keep tripping and landing on the ground because of my reckless clumsiness. I wish I were an astronaut, looking at planet Earth from a spacecraft’s window, paralyzed from watching angels dance amongst the stars and leap from the moon to Earth, like shooting stars. My frivolous thoughts are vividly imprinted on the sand of the shore. I dance and twirl in the moonlight in my sundress, shivering as the coastal winds whip my hair around my face. I make music through coconut shells and my own rough hands. The tidal waves have turned deadly but I don’t move away; I dive in. The friendly sea creatures blow me bubbles and I can’t help but giggle underwater.”

I wish that was my life. Oh don’t get me wrong, I love my life. But having a life that doesn’t exist would be quite whimsical and just exhilarating.