Moons & Vomiting Pens

White

So. I started writing a post about some strange and quirky and unusual ways to get in touch with your inner child.

It skittered and collapsed like a shot deer. I deleted it. It was literary spew. Yuck.

I think you know what I’m getting at here.

Sometimes, days are just hell, you know? Everything you touch or make or do withers and wilts and dies and decays and dies a million more deaths, going through the cycles of life, and then even the matter that makes them up scatters and breaks down until only subatomic particles are left, shivering and stinking up metaphysical places. The world becomes a graveyard, a desert, a barren something, scattered with the dry bones of your soul.

What I’m trying to say, and failing to do, is that sometimes life is super-duper crappy and you just doubt everything about yourself and wish you could just stop being conscious and erase yourself from the world and be drawn back into the picture when the stars feel more aligned in your favour.

Actually, I have no clue what I’m trying to say here. I suppose, well, I hope, if you’re having a hellish day, that this will be of some comfort? Maybe? Like, I’m in pain too, so your pain is okay? I don’t know.

I suppose I could end this pitiful post with little sparkles of inspiration to buoy your depressed and dolorous spirits – lift my sword-pencil and proclaim with the wind from flapping book-pages in my lungs and a fire in my eyes that, “EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING, MY FRIEND,” or “NOTHING IS FOR FOREVER, Y’KNOW”, or even, “DARK TIMES SHALL PASS, LITTLE ONE.” Lord.

But yeah. I think I will. Even if the words dribble and splatter in a god-awful mess that would make even dogs run away if they were to get a whiff of it and not stop running until they’ve reached the moon where you can’t really smell stuff anyway (I think?), ears flattened and whining. The fact that I’m still typing away can be a source of inspiration for you, my little one. Every word is agony write now but I’m still typing them, and after this I’m going to write a bit more even if I have to use my own blood as ink. So, there’s that.

I love the moon. Do you love the moon? I really, really love the moon. It’s an obsession of mine. I can’t stop staring at it when it arrives in the night sky. Its just a ball of cratered rock, but from down here, don’t you think it’s just so luminous and large and lovely? The moon makes me feel safe. The moon makes me feel like magic is possible. You know, like lunar magic, and werewolves, and the like. When I look at the moon – just look, not think or feel or do anything else – I feel at peace.

Go find your moon. Imagine your moon in your head. It’ll make you feel better. Okay, that was the inspirational part. Give me a pat on the back – I got this far without deleting it. And I’m going to hit publish, even though it’ll make me cringe so ferociously I’ll feel like I’m shriveling up into myself.

I shall now return to my misery. Happy moon-gazing, my friend.

– Dreamerrambling

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Hello. Let’s Have Another Conversation. Human to Human.

Fairy Shadow

I apologize in advance for how boring this post might be.

They’re just me, true to my name, rambling, pinning whatever free-floating thought I have wafting about in my mind onto paper. It will be self-indulgent and self-centered: a form of extreme navel-gazing, if you will. I just spill all of me out, minus the frills in my other posts and the desire to write relatively coherent and engaging posts with the aim to touch souls. It’s the sort of stuff I usually scribble in my diary, but with the added privilege of knowing a few people might glance at it and relate. It is simply a conversation with me – a human being, an organism, a sack of flesh, a conscious mind; a one-sided conversation, I’ll admit, but after I sit finish typing here and press post, I’ll let my imagination conjure the kind of replies you who are reading this would proffer.

It’s astounding how quickly a human soul can mature. How quickly the mind expands, bubbling and growing, as it absorbs new thoughts, ideas and concepts. I know that I am a bit of an old soul (I feel rather self-aggrandizing causing myself an old soul sometimes, as if I’m putting myself on a pedestal as a wiser-than-thou figure, but it’s the only way I can account for some of my thoughts and the inability to integrate with my fun-loving, excitable peers), and some of my posts offer glimpses of wisdom, but a year ago I was nothing like that. I was an anxious, unwise, bumbling, foolish, petty person, and now, looking back, I feel it was because my soul was trapped, and hadn’t been allowed to flourish and awaken. There was a certain wrongness that discoloured my everyday life. A year ago, I didn’t write regularly. I’ve only truly started ‘writing’ deliberately and consistently for the last six months. A year ago, I had no conception of my dreams, desires, who I was. A year ago, I was unborn.

And now, it’s like these numinous gates have swung open, flooding my soul with heavenly light and filling my mind with sweet, soaring hosannas. I’m not happy. I don’t think happiness is a default setting of mine. I’m a melancholy person by nature, as many INFPs tend to be, and quite like myself that way because it makes me feel more alive. Giddy happiness is foreign to me: my rare moments of joy are more like tiny roses puckering their petals quietly inside my heart.

I feel beauty much more powerfully; when I read a beautiful sentence in a book, tears spring to my eyes, and I feel like my whole body is made of euphoric light. But though I’m not happy, I’m less miserable. Literature, art, writing – these things have pulled away the mists from my eyes. Such enormous changes. I feel like a different person, and honestly wished I had shed my old self sooner. This has been causing me a lot of frustration. If only I had birthed my soul sooner, I could have had years of working at the craft of writing instead of wasting my time worrying about nonsensical, idiotic, meaningless things. I want to call after Time, grab hold of its hand and plead, “Wait, wait. Take me back. Please. I’ll do better.”

But maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I had to reach this age to reach my maturity. That’s okay. There’s no point in lamenting over lost time. Time is deaf. It just plods on, and you should do the same. Use the time that you have now. That’s how I reconciled myself to my lost time. To not waste the time I have now, so that my future self won’t lament the lost time I could have currently utilized. Forward, soldier. Forward. To where? Just forward. Just move.

I’ve touched upon truths. One of these is that all human beings are one. A year ago, I thought it simply was some idealistic call to rally humanity together, but now I know it’s more. It’s always more, isn’t it? Depthless. There are beings who see more than us, and the more they see is so much more than our more, yet there is still even more for them to know. Knowledge is infinite. But yes, we truly are one.

We are one entity, only we can experience life one at a time.

It’s like a great pool of watery soul matter, and we’re just the little ice crystals that form on its surface, each unique, each different, but all part of the pool.

I have closed my eyes, and imagined myself into the skin of other beings to truly feel this concept. Right now, as you read this, other eyes stare at skies, at blood, at food, at cities, at seas, at roads, at animals, at horrors, at joys, at beauty, and they’re all your eyes too, only you can only see through one pair of eyes in one lifetime. I hope this makes some measure of sense. I know it’s seems rather farfetched and abstract. Do you believe it? I do. Maybe the metaphor isn’t perfect, but I think it’s something like that. Sometimes, you just know. And when we die, we simply melt back into the pool, but we’re never truly dead: the other crystals are a part of us, it’s all one glistening entity. All of humanity is this shifting, crystalizing, rearranging and kaleidoscopic mass of soul substance. If someone had told me this a year ago, I would have stared at them with a gormless expression on my face. How quickly we grow, transmute.

This concept also changed my ideas about God and religion. I am still an atheist, but my atheism has taken on a new form. I used to declaim religion, placing it on par with fairies and unicorns, simply viewing it, in my arrogant naivety, as something which humans made up to answer the questions without answers, to act as a safety net when the time comes to leap into the arms of death. Maybe it is a little like that. Maybe a lot.

But I understand now that there are things beyond the physical and the metaphysical and science and black matter and the Big Bang. There’s a Something, some sort of force that infuses us with consciousness, allows us to create art, causes stars and galaxies to coalesce, blossom forth glittering beauty, a Something behind the clockwork of the universe and beyond, twisting its gears and keeping it moving.

Maybe that’s my idea of God. I don’t believe in some ethereal entity floating in the ether who controls my path in life and looks after me and my destiny, but I believe in this Something, and maybe that makes me a spiritual atheist. There’s a perfection, an order, a transcendence and magic to existence and life and everything that can’t simply be explained by science. Science is beautiful, but sometimes I feel that it only looks at the face of the universe, rather than plumbing its inner depths and thoughts, the dark, frothy stuff that matters. Then again, maybe it’s not about atheism or God or agnosticism, but about not thinking or believing or arguing but just experiencing. That’s all we’ve got, after all. The here and now, forever and always.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

You know, I’m so silly when it comes to love. I’m ridiculous. Love is the perfect outlet for idealism, and sometimes I just close my eyes and whirl away on adorable, little romantic fantasies. I even wrote one as a post, on this blog. But I don’t believe them. I used to believe that it was possible for love to be all encompassing and perfect. That it would protect me and keep me safe from the big, bad world once I found the true thing, and it can. It’s just not forever, and it’s not for always. Love is brief. Love grows stale. Love is a shiny jewel that gradually grows lackluster the longer you wear it, before it starts collecting dust in some corner of an attic. It’s very easy to get comfortable with love, and neglect love. But most of all, don’t depend on love. Even the love of your family is tenuous and capricious.

I wish I could put this properly into words. It’s just that love is a wonderful thing, but it shouldn’t be your only thing. Love fades, but books and art don’t, do you know what I mean? It’s the same with beauty and all the other superficial things on this planet. If Romeo and Juliet were real people, their torrid love would have long faded into the wash of time with the disintegration of their flesh. But it is books, and literature, Shakespeare’s words, that have kept an imaginary love alive for decades. Like Miss Honey, I think I choose books, not looks. No-one will care if you and your partner were two of the happiest darn lovebirds on Earth. They will care about your book, about your invention, about your words. I’m wincing at my rambling, and I thank you if you’ve read this far. Such indulgence! Well, that’s what happens when you have a blog and you’re of a philosophical, musing nature.

In the end, everything’s transient, really. Don’t get too attached. Do what your heart yearns to do, birth your creations into the world, but then dust off your hands and leave their fate to the universe. One day, our civilization will end, and all our efforts – our buildings, our inventions, our books, our art – will be for naught. It breaks my heart to think of libraries disappearing in an incineration, a flutter of black ash, of years and years of magical eruptions from human souls destroyed in an instant…but it feels right. Fitting. There is no purpose for our creations if there is no-one left to enjoy them. Our scribbling would mean no more to higher beings than the intricate pheromone trails of ants, and we trample all over those. Let us live. Let us live, and let our living be a brief bloom of a flower of unsurpassable beauty that fades in a blink of an eye.

Let us live.

And remember, there’s always next year, a next Big Bang, for it to bloom again. Perhaps all the universes are an intricate huddle of metaphysical greenhouses, each harbouring their own stunning assortment of galaxy flowers. Oh, how I ramble.

Listening To Your Heart Wonderland Style

Teacup

We all want to crawl into a tiny cave beneath the world and pick about our heart-strings to create our own little symphonies with the grasshoppers, but sometimes the caves are full, and sometimes you can’t find them, they’re just filled with thousands of deluded little Alices in their blue and white pinafores with bruised faces wailing for lost rabbits, while time just keeps tick-tick-tick ticking! It won’t stop! It won’t stop! You’ll slap her face and scream at her to talk, but she’ll only whimper, and tell you not to drink it, but you’ll do, they always do, thinking it’ll make them bigger, or small enough to slip between the cracks, eat me, drink me, it’s a trick, but you’ll do it anyway, and you’ll walk through the door, and oh, there she is, make a decision, the queen yells at you, make a decision, give me your strings and I’ll knot them into paint brush heads to paint your skies red, not white, I want it to be red, red, red, red, red, the cards are laid about before you, pick one, yes, the tarot cards twinkle at you, pick a card, any card, or off with your head! I’m fucking scared. I don’t want this, it’s a nightmare, claw my eyes out and make them your centerpieces, lots of different irises, blue, green, brown, like a colourful bouquet, ain’t that nice? I want to wake up, let the cards billow and fall and wake me up, please, but this is the real world baby, ha, ha, this is the real world and the caterpillar’s hookah can’t take you away forever, and I see it so clearly, my own head, decapitated, on the floor, steeped in a pool of scarlet gore, it’s so frightening I think I’ll puke, stop, stop!
It’s just the same old mad tea party, again and again and again, it never stops, merry-go-round of life, everyone drinking from the same teacup, swallows the same dregs that curdle their stomach, the whole world is this tea party and we have to smile and play along and sip our teas, sip your tea! Sip it until the acridness shrivels your insides into yellowed pus and brown organ decay, until you’re rotten on the inside, you see? And the Mad Hatter, he’s smiling, he loves it, he loves seeing you this way, you’re a guest, and he loves you for that, because once you’re dead he’ll cook you and burn you down to make the tea leaves, burnt flesh strips so that other people’ll drink your bad blood and that’ll keep his tea party going on forever. Or you could take a page out of the dormouse’s book, he’s smart, you know, it’s better to be sleepy and curl up at the bottom of the teacup, it’s better. At least you’ll drown in the nasty stuff rather than sip it, it’s quicker, at least, when people move to the next tea cup, an ouroboros of fun, you’ll stay in the teacup, you won’t move, isn’t that nice? It’s nicer, that’s what I say.
Psst, it’s a secret, the roses are actually white, you know that right? They’re white, but she’s painted them red, and they give it different names, god, love, spirituality, government, safety, but it’s all just a sham, blood to cover the purity, but the blood tastes good in our mouths once the tea burns and blisters our tongues. They paint themselves in hearts, in blood, in red, and they say here you go! Play crotchet, with your heart-spectre, play with us, you have to play, or off with your head! And it comes again, so scary, damn fucking scary, the sight of your own decapitated head in a pool of blood, so scary you just want to crawl into the teacup now, now, now, and sleep for a thousand years. You hate it. But Alice wins? Alice doesn’t win. Alice wakes up, can you wake up? If you wake up, that’s not winning. The only way to win is to fight red with red, you’ve got to pluck out your own heart and analyse the ventricles, pump the blood and use it as a pistol to shoot the cupids because they’ll come for you, their little angelic wings but devilish smiles, promising love, what a joke! You’ve got to twist the ligaments and lay out the flesh and read your own fortunes in the blood-slick chambers and it’s going to take a while, and maybe the tea party will have moved on by then but take another puff of the hookah and just keep going, and maybe the cards will tumble and fall on you, but don’t wake up, don’t wake up, until you’ve taken your heart apart and laid out the map of veins, and if she comes for you, bundle it all up back into your chest, shhh, it’s your little secret, and now that you know the knowledge will pump through your veins and you’ll pick up the croquet stick and you’ll ace it, you’ll whap the Queen of Heart’s neck and cut off her head! Her head will not lie in a pool of blood, it’ll just go wide-eyed, the ruby lips will part with astonishment, and then she’ll fade away, like the sunset, but don’t smile, she’ll come back to life again tomorrow at dawn but you’ve got the map in your heart now and its spidering outwards its routes through your veins, naming the streets of your capilleries, and you’ve always got a cat on your side, sure, sometimes only his smile, but sometimes that’s all you need. And if you do it for long enough?

The roses will turn into marigolds, into daffodils, whichever you prefer, it’s your florist shop. You can leave the tea party, rip up your invitation, that’s it, that’s it. You can let them drink their tea and chitter their nonsense.

And you’ll reach your wonderland.

Why I Pirate Books

Book

I know. I know. I’m a terrible person. A criminal. A blackguard. An scoundrel of the web, pillaging on seas of gigabytes.

I’m sure many of you have heard of the maelstrom of indignation surrounding the topic of piracy on the internet. And the general verdict is that, well, it’s akin to stealing. No. It is stealing.

I agree. That’s why I’m a terrible person.

But I’m going to attempt to justify my theft. And maybe this will open the eyes of some people who denounce all acts of piracy, and the people who commit them. To show you one of the faces behind the pirates everyone hates.

I’ll lay the cards clear on the table. I pirate purely for financial reasons. Not simply to save money. That is a weak excuse, and if you’re pirating books, movies, or any content just to spare a couple of dollars, don’t. Stop that. Please buy the lovely creative stuff people produce so that they are compensated for their work just like any other professional. Please. But, yes, the reason is that I just don’t have the money to buy books. I don’t have a job, and I’m still in school. School takes up a good deal of my time, especially since exams are underway. Due to a tumultuous family history, I live with my mum with my younger brother, and we veer on the precipice of poverty. Not digging for sympathy. Just a fact.

Yes, we can afford enough food to live, pay for electricity and internet connection and water and the rent. We are surviving, but only just. After all the bills are paid, there is nothing left. Nothing for savings. We live the dreaded paycheck to paycheck lifestyle, and it wears my mum down. It’s stressful. It makes you feel like your whole world is built on quicksand. I really hate it.

For those of you who know a bit about me, and have read some of my blog posts, you’d know that I am a writer, and a lover of books. I don’t think the word love even covers it. I sing hosannas to books, I bow before them, they are my love, my God, my everything. Unfortunately, books take a back burner to survival. I’m not selfish enough to deprive the family of food just so I can feed on the glories of literature. I cannot afford to buy books. So I pirate them sometimes, downloading them onto our rickety computer from the internet. I steal doses of magic, like a crack addict. Not to save money, but because I have no money. If I had any money, every cent of it would go towards buying books. There isn’t a better way on earth to spend your hard earned cash.

But what about libraries, you might say? Can’t you just borrow them for free?

Yes. Yes I can. And I do. I take home piles of books from the local library, and my school library. I’m like an older incarnation of Matilda in the book by Roald Dahl. Unfortunately, due to the area where I live, the amount and range of books is limited. What I mean to say is, the books are very old, and outdated. Their pages unleash musty fumes and spirals of dust upon being exposed to air, and most of their spines are crumbling, sagging affairs, botched together pitifully with contact in a last ditch attempt to preserve their shape. Most of them are classics. And though I have nothing against classics, or non-fiction books on the Titanic, and the best places to travel in Asia, very few of them are in the genre I read in, and write in – namely, weird and strange fiction, offbeat and dark fantasy. Also, I’ve read most of them. Also, the libraries never update their shelves, because they have no money to do so. Also, I can’t travel to other libraries, because they are too far and I walk everywhere. And because transportation costs money. Gah. Capitalism.

Word

This is going to sound cringe-worthy, but I’m just a dirt-poor girl, who loves reading, but doesn’t have the resources to read the books she wants to. That’s it.

Nevertheless, all this isn’t a great excuse for my thievery. I could deprive myself of doses of magic. Books aren’t necessary for my survival, at least, not literally, the way food is. I won’t drop dead if I can’t read books. But the thing is, and I know this sounds cheesy, but books are everything to me. They are my glorious knights in papery armour, wielding swords of metaphor and words and wonder to fight away the many dragons of my every day life. They are a luxury, yes, but they to me, they are a luxury I cannot give up without descending into absolute misery. If books I wanted to read no longer existed in the world, then I wouldn’t want to exist either.

However, it’s also my undying, deep-rooted affection for books that make me hate myself every time I download one from the internet. There isn’t a group of people in the world I respect and adore and admire more than writers. Some of them are well-known and wealthy enough not to be impacted by my pirating. But other writers, the lesser-known ones, lose money because of me. Its clogs my system with guilt. Hell, one day, I know I’m going to be a writer who will live off her work, and what would I do with myself if people were illegally downloading my content?

Yet the truth is, if I didn’t download them, I wouldn’t read them, because I can’t, I just wouldn’t be able to. I suppose what I’m trying to say is, in regards to the writers who I have stolen from, they have gained an ardent appreciation of their art from me, at the very least. Their magic has sparked my soul. This is not a justification for my crime: all I’m saying is, either way, they don’t earn any money from me, yet, through pirating, they allow their art to touch and bring magic to the world of another human being.

If I were one of those writers, and I knew someone like me was pirating their books, I would not hate them. If you’re someone like me, who literally can’t afford to buy books, I don’t think writers should hate you. At least someone is reading their work. At least someone cares enough to scour the internet for their work, and devour their words while sitting in front of the dim computer screen late at night.

But, in the end, it comes down to money, and compensation, and none of my justifications really make a difference in regards to that. Sure, some writers might care about distilling magic in the brain of a young writer, but others would rather have the cash and less frivolity, please and thank you. Which is why I have compiled a list of every book that I have ever pirated, and I add one each time I commit the act. And I swear to you, the moment I start earning more money than is needed for necessities, I’m going to buy each of those books, one by one. It is an oath I am making with myself, because I love writers, and I love what they create, and I hate the pilfering of art. But please, if you truly can afford books, please buy them. And if you’re like me, and you truly do not have the funds (if you can buy an extra pair of shoes, you can pay for a book), I urge you to write a list of all the books you have stolen, and make the same oath.

Because we need to pay writers. Because the joy of imagination and reading and art is worth every penny. Because if we don’t pay writers, then they can’t go on creating art, and our lives will be the worse off for it. Because they deserve to be compensated for their labors of love. Because books are just damn wonderful.

Now.

Now

Right now, I am sitting in my bedroom, typing on my laptop.

I have gorged myself during dinner, and feel bloated. It’s an uncomfortable feeling. I’m hoping it’ll pass soon.

Streetlights are glimmering outside the window, on the darkened streets, whites and yellows, like earthbound stars.

It’s night time, so the flush of vehicles on the road is abating. There is still the occasional whoosh of a car driving past, a feather of motion.

It’s very, very quiet. There’s a clock ticking somewhere. Tick. Tick. Sonorous and lovely and inexorable.

My table is a jungle of scattered books. It’s a struggle to find anything in its bewildering wilderness.

I feel sad and happy and calm. I feel happy, because it’s quiet, and I’m alone, and I got to read for hours today. I feel sad because I miss childhood and time is passing too fast and nothing is forever no matter how much I want it to be. I am also dissatisfied with my writing efforts. I feel calm, because night has come, and the world is winding down, being tucked into bed by the moon and the stars. It’s my favorite time of the day. It’s so dark and delicious and silent and lovely.

I wonder whether vampires feel the same way, when dawn trickles its light into the world. Or maybe they just feel fearful and weary, rather than relieved, and simply close up their dark, leathery winds like folding umbrellas and tuck their pale, pointed chins to their necks and sleep, dreaming of a world of perpetual darkness, where things screech and feed beneath a red moon.

Another car just whistled past on the road, accompanied by a staccato beep of horn.

It’s very quiet.

The Different Types Of Dreamers

Sad Man

Why do people dream?

Because reality is boring. That’s why.

Because every single person on this earth is a dreamer.

However, you’ll find that there are different types of dreamers. Here are a few of them.

The Day-Dreamers

These are the people who are content with dreams that slot neatly into reality. I would like to be famous one day. I would like to be rich. I wish to meet my true love. I want to be successful at my business. I want to be admired. They are resourceful, confident, and friendly people. These are the kinds of people who love Hollywood entertainment – chick flicks, action movies, etc. – and spend money on large screen televisions and overpriced popcorn. They are content, and feel comfortable and even safe inhabiting reality. For them, reality and all its possibilities hold all the wonders they could ever desire.

The Life-Dreamers

These people love to escape reality, and fall in love with fantastical worlds and the characters that inhabit them. Life-dreamers are the people who buy tickets to midnight movie premieres and treasure every item in their Lord of the Rings merchandise collection. They weep heart-tears over the fact that they can’t actually attend Hogwarts, or find a magical ecosystem of fairies at the bottom of their garden. They are often avid readers of science-fiction and fantasy, and wish magic truly existed in the boring, mundane world, and that they could go on fantastical quests just like the heroes and heroines in books. That there could be an edge of danger to the real world in the form of warlords and evil wizards and witches. Reality is something to be tolerated for them, like the shabby clothes they have to wear everyday to look respectable. Really, they’d love to just chuck the whole thing and go magic full-time.

The Soul-Dreamers

Contrary to their name, soul dreamers are the most realistic of all three groups. You’re right, they say. It is a godless world. We’re just a ball of spinning rock twirling around a hot gaseous entity in the fathomless dark waters of a sea of other galaxies. We’re all going to die, and the chances of any of becoming filthy rich or soaring to the heights of stardom are negligible. Magic does not exist. We know, we know, they say, very patiently, very quietly.

Yet to them, reality is like being a grub stuffed in the slick encasing of a chrysalis, jostling and thrashing, waiting for the day when the darkness splits at its seams and light floods into the world and they unfurl and stretch their ragged wings as a glorious, glorious butterfly, all the while knowing it never will.

For these people, reality is an intolerable, interminable nightmare. No. Really.

It is being crammed in a tiny disappearing box and being abandoned by the grand magician, the only one who can finish the trick.

It is being frozen, open-mouthed, in a block of blue-white ice, while the world passes by heedless.

It is wanting to use your own blood to paint out the world.

You will not find these people reading biographies or non-fiction books. You will not find them watching Hollywood movies. You will not find them squealing over Harry Potter books. Instead, you will find them walking about with a weary look in their eyes, a shuffle to their steps. They may not meet your eyes, and wince at the roar of highways. Sometimes, looking at them, you wonder if they are all there. Frankly, they look a bit crazy.

For these people, reality is a death sentence. Reality plucks out their hearts, unravels their veins. And to stave off the pain of dying everyday, they resort to their imagination, to fiction, to books, to writing, to dreaming. These things are not places of delight and solace to be visited at the end of a long day. They read and imagine to catch a glimpse of the world they truly belong to. They read and imagine because if they did not, they would die. They clutch books to their hearts with the fervour of drowning men, as if wishing they could become one with the magic inscribed on the pages if only they hold on tight enough.

They are tiny, ethereal, glowing fairies trapped in lumpy, fleshy, rude human bodies, and they are lost and wandering, and wanting to go home.

Your Life Is A Dream

Dream

“He felt that his whole life was a dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.”

– Douglas Adams

I think consciousness is just one big dream.

And when it ends, we wake up in the void. Only it is an emptiness. To wake up from a dream without a dream is to wake up in nothing at all.

And maybe even that emptiness is another kind of dreaming, and some other metaphysical form can wake up from that dream; and maybe the secret to life and the universe and everything is an onion, with layers and layers of dreaming sheathed upon one another, and one that we will be peeling back for all eternity.

Who knows what kind of forms dream the dreams beyond our own? We can’t possibly imagine it. Maybe they aren’t forms at all, but something beyond solidness and light and everything we know. Maybe the layers they inhabit are the parallel universes, the thousands of dimensions crinkled and folded like origami stretching outwards further than time and space.

Either way, it doesn’t really matter.

We all have one dream, to savor and enjoy. Just one.

Might as well make it a good one, so the colours of our dreams can seep and vivify the dreams of others for years to come.

Might as well make it worth it, so we can wake up from it with a smile on our nebulous faces, eh?

Love Story Of A Dreamer

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I’d see you, standing aside, an outcast, peering at the intriguing panoply of human interaction splayed out before you and feeling no urge to join. Somehow, somewhere, we’d get to know each other, you and I. Two dreamers, souls fused together. Perhaps while walking home after school, crossing paths. Perhaps in class, during a philosophical discussion. Perhaps in the library, reaching for the same book – well, that sort of thing is always rather cute, isn’t it?

We’d both be pretty tentative at first. It is a part of our personalities. But gradually, we’d get to know each other, and open up a world of delights. The mindless chatter of the halls would no longer torment us, make us feel removed and detached from humanity, for we would have each other. When school becomes unbearable, we’d find solace in a squeeze of the hands, a glance from across the room.

We’d spend our breaks walking on the oval beside the trees, feeling the sunlight and wind on her faces and cheeks, and laugh and exult at being alive. Peer into each other’s souls, and cry with happiness at what we see there. Lie side by side on the grass, holding hands. Hug, an embrace that wipes out the begrimed world and polishes our hearts, makes them beat with new shiny fervor. Imagine crazy surreal worlds, build our own fantasy empires. You’d be my knight in partner. We’d save the world, one magical thought at a time. Rescue ants from watery deaths. Cock our heads at crows and divine the truth in their red beady eyes. Walk and look up at the blue, blue sky and feel the bigness and wonder of it fill our chests and minds, so engrossed we bump into trees and then laugh at our blunders. And we’d talk. About everything. And in our mutual thinking, find a joy that brings tears to our eyes.

It will be a love that transcends our bodies. We’d sit in classroom together, estranged from the other students, in our own little universe, slipping notes to each on philosophical musings and other bubbles of our minds. They won’t be able to hurt us. It would be not be like before, when I was alone, and wandered my own path of misery. When the judgmental stares – she’s odd – would bore into my back like acid. No, together, hand in hand, I would be the happiest girl alive. You’d be the alkaline of my life, and I’m sorry if that sounds cheesy. You would understand. And that understanding would blossom in our hearts until they are like flowers connected with a single-vine strand, entangled with emotions, curling up towards sunlight and hope and happiness.

And perhaps we would kiss, one night, beneath the moon, and taste shimmering stardust on our tongues, our laughter sending up spurts of firework into the night. Perhaps we would grow old together. Relying each other to navigate the world, morphing periodically into anchors or ships to move forward or stay behind and live.

We’d spend our weekdays writing and reading, and even enduring a day job would be easier knowing the other exists, and will be waiting for us when we get home; even if that home is a dingy little apartment with mold stains on the ceiling. We’re dreamers. We can play pretend, imagine it to be a palace, serve cheap biscuits on cracked platters and pretend they are fancy entrees. Bow to one another and say how do you do m’lady.

And on the weekends, we could go for walks, go to the library together. Spend our nights cuddled up on the armchair reading and flying to other worlds but always feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies, tethering us to the delicious reality of our love. And of course, there’d be cats, and you’d love the furry felines just as much as I do. Fall asleep beside each other and wake up in the middle of the night and feel safe and talk about life and love and everything.

Have you ever wanted something so much it hurts? Like the yearning is so immense you feel it as a physical tug of agony in your chest? I haven’t met you yet. Maybe you don’t exist. Maybe our paths will never cross. Maybe when we meet you won’t like me, or we won’t give each other a chance to open up to one another.

But there are so many people in this world. Surely someone like you is out there, somewhere. I believe you are out there, and you’re wishing for the same thing. I really do. We’ll find each other. We must. I’d just like to say in advance that I kind of love you. I don’t even know you yet, but I do. I’ll be alright spinning the rest of my life on my own, I don’t need a person to complete my life; but it’s always nice to have a spider buddy to make pretty webs with. Like an old ladies knitting session.

Stay dreamy.

PS: It’s okay if you’re not crazy about cats. I won’t hold that against you.

How To Stop Idealising People

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If you’re a dreamer, chances are you idealize people. It’s wired in our natures. We live in a world of imagination and fantasy, and we can’t help but superimpose our glorious visions of perfection upon those around us.

This can sometimes cloud our judgment to an unhealthy extent. It’s a good thing to see the silver lining threaded through the soul of every human being, but we have to understand that not everyone is a marble statue of wonder. Often, upon closer inspection, we find cracks feathering through the structure of our idols, and the weathering of age upon their visages.

But disillusionment is not the only ramification of idealizing people. Idealizing is a veneer of pretty glitter. It distorts your vision. You see a goddess instead of a woman. You see a superhero rather than a man. And by doing so, you prevent yourself from truly getting to know other human beings.

I recall idealizing a boy in primary school to such an extent that I could not even speak to him, for fear of shattering the illusion. I had also blown out of proportion his good qualities, and made myself feel astronomically inferior. I regret that. Maybe I could have got to know a really friendly guy, but my fantasy-loving brain got carried away, and left me with only an fragmented illusion.

So, what can you do to fix this?

It’s hard to rewire our thoughts, especially since we live in a society where celebrity worship is, well, celebrated. People faint upon meeting their favourite actresses or getting their book signed from a famous author. This societal glorification, a large-scale projection of idealization, almost seems to tell us that human worship is okay.

Sure, you can love people for their public image and their work. But what you have to realise is that everyone is human. I mean it. Human. Raw. Sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful.

The only way to stop idealizing the people you currently worship is to talk to them and get to know them. However, if the wall of illusion is already built, and you can’t stand tearing it down, you can prevent it happening in the future by changing your mindset.

How?

By keeping in touch with your inner humanity. Now, this doesn’t mean feeling compassion for the creatures of this world – you have enough of that. It means seeing humans for what they truly are. They are not deities. They are just like you. No, seriously. Think about it. They are just like you. Sure, give or take some differences in terms of talent, money and looks, but, in the end, they’re human. We all cry. We all eat. We all hate. We all love. We are united by our common humanity. We all have horrible I-want-to-die days and blissful life-might-be-okay-after-all days. Yes. Everyone. That cute girl that sits behind you in class. Your favourite pop star. The president.

All I’m saying is, dear dreamers, that we’ve got to be careful and not create a land of jewel-soul beings of unparalleled perfection in which we’re the only sand-bag rag doll. It’s no good for forming true relationships, and no good for you, either, because you’ll just get up feeling terribly inferior.

And, hey, if you’re really struggling with pulling away the veil of moonbeams, just imagine the object of your idealization sitting on the toilet and pooping. And maybe not even with grace. Just the way you do it, slouched down on the toilet seat, playing on your phone. It’s a bit unsightly, but it works. That’s a sure fire way to drag the cloud down to earth.

But in all other respects of your life…

Keep dreaming.

Ow.

Ow

Ow.

Sometimes, it really hurts to exist.

Ouch. It pricks you, you see. You walk outside, and the world stabs you from all directions.

The noise. The colours. The people. Each a little prick, until you’re spurting blood like a walking, bullet-holed barrel. Ow.

Every look, every glance, a dagger of potential sharpness.

It hurts. It hurts. I bleed, but silently, and the blood is invisible, evanescent as air. My smile is my Band-Aid. It covers up everything I don’t want people to see.

Anxiety floods my system like poison every time I face the world. It hurts.

I want to be alone. I crave it. I want to live in my mind, in shadows, beneath rocks, in wells, the underbellies of clouds, in tree houses, suspended on a spider web, silent, glittering, watching, unseen.

As a child, I never wanted to live in a luxury mansion, decked out with state-of-the-art facilities and a big, gleaming artificial pool.

I dreamed of living in a library.

Just a library.

A quiet, ancient, wooden room, filled with shelves upon shelves of books. Their spines would be reds, greens and blues, and traced in gilt. There would be a chair, a casement window, a fireplace, and I would sit in that armchair and read and write in leather bound book until the sun went down.

It would be so quiet. So lovely and quiet. Only the expectant exhale of the books, those marvelous books, waiting to be read, for them to draw pictures in my mind, bleed ink into my veins. I wanted to become the books. I wanted to tease out my soul like an elastic DNA strand, twine it with the words, the pages, and be one with the stories.

Perhaps there would be a cat. I think I’d like that. A nice, tabby cat. It would curl up on my lap and purr.

And so it would be. Day after day, year after year. Watching the grass and trees fade from green to autumnal colours, to shed their leafy heads, watch snowflakes spin past my window. That is my dream. That is my haven. That is what I would wish for, if a genie were ever to pirouette out of the mouth of a bottle and grant me the fabled three wishes.

There would be no pain there. Just stories, and warmth. Nature and animals. Peace. Wonder. Words. Art. Beauty.

I want it so badly I could scream. But I know no-one would care even if I yelled my head off. Because we suffer alone. So, in the meantime, I nurse my wounds. I cry my silent tears. I rip off my face in private. I tease out my blood vessels and try to braid them into a flesh rope that can help me escape my tower. In the meantime, all I say, scream, think or feel is…

Ow.