I was going to put this as private…but the length of this post should scare away any readers that don’t care enough to read.
I’m crying as a I write this. Bitter nostalgia resurfacing to the top of my mind. I remember a lot of things that I really wish would just go away. I haven’t been able to cry lately – one of the side effects of being in love. But today, today it all comes out. No, nothing in particular happened today that triggered this burst of emotion…No, nothing at all. It’s simply something that has been bottling up for so long like a bomb set to explode at any moment.
Just for today, I’ll forget that I’m okay. That I’m no longer the person that I was. But traces of her remain inside. The girl I locked away, claimed to have pushed off a cliff – she’s still here. And she’s far more intelligent than I will ever be. This monster that lurks in the deepest corners of my mind – she’s me and not me.
But let me bring you back to my past. When I was six or seven years old. Still a growing child. Not that I’m not still a child now. I don’t suppose most sixteen year olds pour their emotions into a a written mess of a story. I’m not your typical teenager. I have never been. I was not the typical child either.
There are so many facts that I would like to bury – to hide from existence. But I think it’s time for me to let go a little and tell the world just what was so afraid of. What I’m still afraid of now. Some facts, however, I will choose to keep hidden. Though I’m trying to let go, I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want to receive pity or the emotion you claim to be “sympathy”. I’m not an angry, lonely, teenager seeking attention. I’m writing this for myself. For my own self discoveries. Whether anyone reads or not is none of my concern.
So six years old and one word to perfectly describe this girl’s situation (I’d much prefer to talk about her in third person): lonely. She had people she liked to think of as friends. She went to her so called best friend’s home everyday after school to be babysat. She tried to be good. She was a good girl, really. I don’t think anyone could deny that. But this was the year when everything started to fall apart. The world she had tried so hard to fit into – it shunned her away. She never really got back into it. I’m still left out.
I don’t know if this had any significance…but she loved her dad. This was the year when her dad went back to Hong Kong in order to take care of things. She was the kind of girl that would send her daddy a birthday card every time it came around – Christmas cards in the winter. It stopped a few years later…when she became uncertain of who she was. Daddy’s back now. It’s not the same. He doesn’t treat me like he used to. He ignores my existence for the most part. I’m fine with that. I could delve into a whole mountainload of things such as love issues in my family…but I won’t. That’s not where I’m going with this.
But yes, she was very lonely. This six year old girl who felt like all the pillars supporting her had been shattered by some unfeeling storm. So what if she had no friends? So what? She made her own. She invented an entire fucking world. Yeah, I’m swearing again. Whatever.
So she made herself a princess in that world. A clichéd dream, but nonetheless, it was mine. Sintra, I believe, she named herself. When this princess took over, the entire world looked different. For the longest time, I suppose, I had a split personality. Sintra only came out when she was alone though. Or when things were silent. But she was a lonely girl so Sintra came out quite often.
There was this one summer afternoon when things were especially empty in the world. She went outside. Unsupervised of course. Her brother didn’t really pay much attention to it. Her mom was out at work. She’s always working. So stepped outside, exitting the house from the basement door. She liked to go in and out of the basement. Her own little hideout. She would pay her respects to the pear tree right outside – it’s been cut down now – and peruse around in the back yard. She liked to water – or rather, over water – the plants. She’d hop on her bike with the training wheels and ride around the yard. Not really feeling much of anything. But this was her world. She played with what she had. And she only had so much.
So that summer afternoon, she wanted to leave the yard. I can’t remember if she was allowed to, but regardless, it’s most probably unsafe to be let a six year old walk out on her own. But like I said, she was a good kid. A smart kid. She would get home without too much trouble. So she left through the gate and walked out through the gate. She walked around the neighborhood for a bit and no one really paid much attention to her. She returned home without getting into any trouble. But she learned to be independent that day. She realized that she was alone.
Now let’s get back to Sintra. The princess. She controlled powers of the psych (the mind), of time, and of sheer power. She was powerful. She was sometimes evil. She was the cause of all the good things in her life. Good things came from magic. She dreamed up her own set of servants, her own palace and kingdom. Her mother, the Queen, was evil. Stupid. She controlled her mother too.
I can’t remember when I lost Sintra. It must’ve been sometime in seventh grade when I finally snapped out of everything I had imagined. When I realized that fantasies should remain fantasies and should not carry on in real life…and then, then’s when I turned to dreaming.o
Well, I suppose I’ve always had the craziest dreams. The most realistic…and unrealistic. The most surreal. I’ve always figured that since a third of lives was spent sleeping, it was a good idea to make use of that time. To dream well. To make my own dreams. At least there, I wasn’t alone. I dreamt a lot as a kid. To escape the loneliness. I didn’t know why back then though. I was so naive.
Let’s pull out of my past. I think I’ve shared enough for one day.
So dreaming. Why do I care so much about this concept? Because my dreams have never been normal. Never. When I dream, I’m usually not in this world anymore. I don’t dream of things, of possiblities, of chances in real life. I don’t. In my dreams, I go where I can’t go in real life and I’m usually empowered in some form or another. I’m stronger, I wield magic, I’m more intelligent, and I’m – as much as I hate being vain – more beautiful. I posess some kind of position that sets me aside from others.
If I could write out these dreams in the very detail I dream them in, I would leave you breathless. But I can’t and I’ll never be able to. There’s something beyond this world that exists in my dreams.
A recurring theme in a lot of my dreams is running – fleeing from some enemy. My dreams are never still, never full of idle chatter. They move along fast. There was this one dream of a zombie apocalypse – yes, not very original – that I remember so well. I can almost taste the green, grungy texture of zombie blood on my lips. I slaughtered hundreds. Thousands. With a sword sharper than anything that exists today. I blew entire buildings up. I manipulated my powers so that I could use magic. No, this is not some grotesque RPG gone wrong that has somehow drifted into my mind – though it may possibly be influenced by one – but a different reality. I put myself into these places and I do so for a reason.
I suppose that reason would most likely be the fact that I just want to be needed by someone.
I’m crying again. I’m so fucking soft.
But I suppose that’s what I’m ultimately getting at. I’ve always, I suppose, just wanted to become a presence which people would actually miss if it disappeared. Dreaming lets me do that. It lets me be that someone who is loved. Loved. I suppose I’ve always just wanted that too. I hate to appear weak, as if I actually need others to help me stand on my feet. I hate being useless.
But life has never tried to make things easy for me. Dreaming has. Guess which one I love more.
And to think, to think I was so close to never being born. I don’t suppose that many people would miss me if I disappeared. The world is so cold, so unconnected. People don’t care enough. I try to. To care, that is. To make someone else feel wanted. Because I know how it feels like to not be wanted, to be so perfectly alone.
Tonight, I will dream.