Those Precious Times

An Author's dream

The sky was already very dark. A loud hush of the rain can be heard from outside. The sound of the raindrops crashing on the rooftop fits the man's mood. The man had no strength to write, no ideas, no motivation. He glued himself on his bed, lifelessly staring at his window where the beads of water stayed. Yes, the rain calmed him, he never felt alone when the weather was like this.
As an author, this man was a disgrace. He couldn't forgive himself because of his blank thoughts. "I should write, no I MUST write...." he muttered.
"Something...anything..please!" The man continued to say. Its almost as if his mind refused to listen. How many months has it been? It might've been a year now. He has only grown tired, though he can't stay like this for long....
The man closed his eyes, hoping that he can see something in his dreams. At least maybe a fragment of it to spark an idea. Before he knew it, he fell asleep.

—————————————————————————————-——————————————————

The man lied down on a bed, but it was comfier and better than the one he had in his house. The warm light of the lamp spread in his room that gave this tender feeling. He looked at the window to see that it's dark. The sky was clear, the moon and stars shone brightly. The reflection on the window showed him his own face. This face he had as a child, nostalgia came over him. He glanced at the right side of his bed and saw his mother. He said "Mom, can you tell me story?"
The mother reached out, patting his head. Her voice was soft but the boy understood every word. "It's already late now sweetie...I can tell a story tomorrow."
"But mom, I wanna hear your stories. Only one story. Pleeeeaaase!" The boy begged as the mother chuckled.
"Okay alright, only one story then after that its sleeping time."

The mother began her story, the boy listened to each and every word she said. He couldn't help but notice something from his mother. The mother looked exhausted, there were dark bags under her eyes, her lips were pale and dry. The mother had a habit of closing her eyes when she tells a story, she rested her elbow on his bed and placed her chin on her right hand. Crossed legged is how the mother sat, he could see his mother's foot swaying her sandal.

Finally he remembers all of this. The boy loved stories, he loved listening to them everyday. Especially his mother's stories that put him to sleep.  Every night was just as simple as that, it was enough to make the boy happy.
The boy clutched his pillow, hugging it. He doesn't want to let go. The warmth, tender feeling is what he loved the most. A dream that he remembers, he wanted the feeling to last forever. But as soon as the story ended the light disappeared. His mother was no longer there and his bed was just not the same as his dream. The room is cold and messy. The books were scattered across the room, there was even some on his bed. There were a few that were half opened and it already has dust on it. The man sat up he clutches his shirt where his chest was. The feeling was still in him. He could feel that warmth. He wanted remember this for as long as he lives. So he quickly took his pen and wrote down everything. His dream, his mother, the coziness of the room, and his childhood. Everything from his mind came gushing down his pen. Frantically writing it, he kept looking down.
At last he finished, though it only cover two pages back to back. He touched the paper as if its the most precious thing he has. "This is it!" He said.
"A masterpiece! I will named this story 'My mother's lullaby'. I will make a great story out of this." He didn't even realize that tears kept running down his cheeks.