a bed-time story

THERE ARE TIMES WHEN HE LIES ON HIS BED at night and something happens. he doesn’t know exactly how to describe it but they are experiences that make him somehow escape. it is when he just stays there in the cramped space of his room; eyes open, watching as time walk pass him. he lets the darkness lick his skin as the cold evening air seizes his soul. he stands on the edge of reality; living between a dream and the world that corrupts his spirit. living in the middle is a relief. he can’t live in a dream and he’s terrified to live his life in this sick world. middle is a place better than anywhere else.

he was there again; on his back, ignoring the dust that littered his bed. thoughts flooded him like a gargantuan cascading river. powerful, petrifying, but nonetheless, beautiful. he embraced each thought as his eyes remained open; looking straight to the ceiling he could not see. as each thought touched his mind, he wanted to get lost in it hoping that he would find meaning. an absolution.

the mind is powerful. he knows this, because everytime he finds himself in the world his mind creates; he can make every thought real. he can even make feelings tangible and dreams turn into cotton candies he can eat. he was hurting and he tried to lie to himself by holding back the tears that burned his eyes. the pain and agony was so real that he was able to hold it in his hand; dark. hard. cold against his palm. he wanted to crush it with his fingers but he knew that what he held in his hands were his dreams too. pulverizing the pain meant breaking his heart. his name was synonymous with confusion and loneliness.

time kept crawling as his thoughts walked on icy water. suddenly, he was on the middle of a frozen lake. there was nothing before him but a vast expanse of endless white and snow. he could hear the swishing sounds of pine trees somewhere, the cold wind whispering. he felt cold but the feeling was welcoming somehow. he then sensed something building up from within him. sounds. music. a song. he closed his eyes and listened. it was a happy song. and then, the song became words. he saw them coming from his mouth. and then the words became him. he danced. he moved his body as graceful as van gogh’s strokes were on a canvas. smooth and flawless. he danced as free as the air and the dust and snow that came along with it. every step he took was a color and every movement of his limbs was a brush stroke; his feet pounding on the delicate ice beneath him. he danced with eyes closed and painted the white world around him into masterpiece with blinding colors. for a moment, he was an art and around him was the world he wanted to live in.

the colors dissolved. he was back there again, in the cold darkness of his room. the sounds were gone. the colorful world was now replaced by pitch blackness intimately kissing his entire body. the only light he could see was from the moon that barely broke the clouds. the sight gave him hope though. with a smile, he closed his eyes, emptied his mind and fell into a deep slumber. the pain no longer in his hands but the dreams still remained, blanketing him with warmth as words trickled down from his eyes that spelled a name he doesn’t know anymore...