Is it ordinary to insinuate any details? It is natural for the mind to concentrate but I lost all the crashing waves I visualized. I laid my head to rest on the fabric carpet as I replayed the scenery. The texture is rough and silk; bright and authentic; and a spherical figure. Nowhere near the carpet of Harry—somehow it's the better version of Fiona's woken-up face.
I stumbled over the bed and felt the silence creeping up on me. As I uttered through the pillows, I woke up. As I turn sideways with jaw-sharped and constricted eyes, it's becoming like a daydream but it's dripping water outside the window. I unleashed on the mattress but there's a pressure that's restraining my veins from rising.
It's one of those dreams where I am near time and near present. Lights sneaking in the closet, I don't want to end up in another sleepless night. I weep slowly without bothering any shadow in the room. The conspiracy of my tears will always be my parents as I rearrange their silhouettes in the light. I can't keep running away from them but worst, when they couldn't approve of the idea of me being an author I seemingly continue to heal from it.
Things could've been easy if I were rich. A kid was dreaming of poor things until he implied objects of his imagination of them. I don't know how she grew up without coping with all of this. "You told me to throw the sandwich on the rusty floor," I said to her in a helpless place. "Out of all the places, this is where seagulls appear the most. It would be helpful not only but a delightful snack for their day. You have to learn to survive without telling people: 'You haven't helped others'," she said to me, grasping my shoulders with her mittens.
No footsteps but cold air flowing around the house without her around. I truly believe she would have left me a letter. A pen is missing, or perhaps she's losing time to write one. The ink doesn't reply so do her hands—I've brought myself to commitment. I would have understood the deal of my parents but I can't fully bring myself in line with it. Forcing that being an author denies my whole personality when in reality, I create a whole diversity of myself.
Horrible distance. I'd call you if I were on time, but Julie. I'd write a poem for you as I torched my pen over the sketch I drew earlier. I named you a horrible distance. You weren't a life support if I knew we'd fly to our own sides. I wept more. I told you, "Boys over there." But you reminded me that they were another horrible distance. I left in peace to sleep.
I woke up denying my mind. Clothes send me packets that I'm all sweaty and dizzy from the haze. I wish I could explain that I was in a fever dream but Jade comes inside.
She holds a pill and a glass of water, "Good, you're awake. Rode, this is prescribed so it's best to take it now."
"But I'm not feeling anything," I said, denying everything.
"Don't be stubborn. Words have been coming out and you have to make yourself better."
"I know but I am not feeling hot."
She tosses my hand on my forehead, "Better?"
"Not at all. How does fever work?"
She tosses a look, "How am I supposed to know? It's not a straight wipeout, isn't it?"
Was it because I was in the snow for a long time or was it because my clothes weren't thick enough? She left the room—the moment I took the medicine, probably to avoid being infected. It's a shame to be sick at a time like this.