Cari's Vignettes

Small Dreams

Before Facebook Mattered, there was... and were...

Small Dreams

It's 12:32 in the morning. It's still early. I should still be sleeping, but there are thoughts that occupy my mind; they linger. I'm overwhelmed by a lot of things and this worries me.

Did I qualify for the volleyball team? I seriously hope I did. I know I wasn't able to perform at my best because I was sick these past few days, but at least I had a day's rest yesterday. I'm glad I even recovered slightly, just in time for the try-outs; as if I hadn't had fever and body aches.

I still play well. Despite years of hiatus – has it been three years already? I know I caught the attention of the coach. My skills have not rusted after all.

There's a chance at least. I feel it.

To resume my wakeful presuppositions, I still wonder why I could not sleep. I should be really beat up by now – with all that rigorous activity. The intense work-out, the pressures involved in doing school tasks... why don't they tire me or even remotely affect me?

This is so weird. It's like I am Superwoman with unlimited strength. Not to mention, I have just recovered from an illness. Am I really this resilient and vigorous? Dare I say it is my youth?

I have ventured to continue on with writing. I shall place them in a prettier and sturdier notebook this time. It shall be a sequel to my personal recollections under Read it when I'm gone. This is technically, my third major effort in writing, but the earlier records have been lost, a.k.a. taken without my consent. I have suspicions, but I dare not say it here, lest "she" reads this.

I'm laughing now. I don't know why. It's because I sound formal; so unlike my usual self. I have this fantasy of becoming like Emily Dickinson who became famous posthumously. Do you know that it was her sister who discovered her writings and had them published? It wasn't Emily's intention, I think, to become famous; she intended secrecy for her stuff – just as I intend such discretion for my "stuff". I do hope, however, that my writings find their reader and that I pray he/she can get something – a thing or two – from my efforts, albeit mediocre.