❦ WINNER OF THE RIVETING WRITING CONTEST ❦
OLIVER IS DYING
With only months left to live at just seventeen, Oliver spends his remaining days of endless tests and debilitating drugs in the St. Andrews paediatrics ward planning his impending funeral...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Dreams are a weird concept. They make sleeping a special time of the day where you're the most awake, though your eyes are closed.
Dreams are illustrations from the soul.
They're memories and hopes and wishes from the heart. They shape what we want our future to look like. But they're fleeting.
When I was younger, I never really had dreams about what I wanted to be. I didn't dream about being a policeman or a fireman or a doctor or an astronaut or an actor or a musician or some kind of superhero. I didn't even dream of being an artist.
I dreamed about experiences and people. I dreamed about the places I wanted to go, the things I wanted to see, the feelings and emotions that came with doing that. I dreamed about the people I wanted to meet. Not celebrities. Just normal people with extraordinary stories to tell.
Since I painted that mural on my wall, I've dreamed about that place. About finding it and sitting on that bench where I'll be able to watch the sun hit the hills at just the right time to see them turn to gold.
Dreams don't always come true, though. The places I dreamed of seeing and the people I dreamed of meeting—I didn't get to see or meet everything and everyone I wanted to.
Dreams can come true. Believe me, they do. I know that for a fact. I know because the only dream I've truly wanted to come true since I painted the mural on the wall is becoming a reality.
The flight was brutal. I'd never been on a plane until the night we scrambled to pack and board hours after we got the passes. To say I was nervous would be a gross understatement. I'm glad that Nick was with me as the seasoned flyer he is. I'm pretty sure if I'd held his hand any tighter, I would've broken a few fingers. But he hadn't protested. All he did was tell me it was going to be okay, and that was really all I needed.
Venice was an experience of a lifetime. The pictures I'd looked up on Google did it no justice.
We walked the bridges over the canals. We rode in gondolas with singing gondoliers. We ate in restaurants hidden away in alleyways. We visited St. Mark's Basilica and the square and the Doge's Palace. We had gelato on the steps by the canal front of the Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute. We watched the sunset from a dock with our legs hanging over the side in the Canale Grande.
I was sad to leave Venice behind, knowing I'll never be able to visit her again. She was beautiful for what I saw of her.
But I was too focused on the main reason for this trip.
Florence was just as beautiful.
I've never seen architecture like it, especially the Duomo, the Piazza della Signoria and the Church of Santa Maria Novella. We were late to visiting the Piazzale Michelangelo, but for us, we were just on time as the skies were slashed with reddish-pink fire.
When we visited Michelangelo's Statue of David at the Galleria dell'Accademia, I had to rib Nick when he said he was underwhelmed at the sculpture a little too loudly.
