My doctor had told me to keep a record of my dreams. She said she likes my prose. I wanted to believe her, of course, like every single fool wanting to be a writer would, but I was asking myself how much of that statement actually meant the way it sounded. She also said I have become mature. How much of that maturity was of age, I doubted, too.
One time, she asked me to read my poem. I sneaked in a few lines, as footnotes supposedly, but she didn't fail to notice them. And so I nodded, in acquiescence, and she was thinking what I was thinking, too, that I was doing this so I could get out of this room as soon as possible.
pearls, flotsam, I see them from here,
with my wondering legs, crossed,
and I thought of losing sight, of going farther,
until they'd look exactly the same.
She smiled at my rusty, unused voice, at my lips that cracked as I gave life to those previously dead words I strung together. "Why, do you want to leave everybody behind?" she asked me, although we were the only people in the room, as if everyone's asleep. I didn't know what to say, so I shrugged my shoulders and looked away.
This morning I was really mad. Inconsolably mad. I threw my notebook to the bin where it belonged. I grew tired of writing about every single dream that could not seem to finish itself. I would usually see an image of a person running to me and I would go back to consciousness immediately after that. I never did get the chance of knowing who that person is. It's happening everyday and I cannot bear it and this whole writing stuff!
And I felt that familiar pain again. There's a much more consuming pain, which always comes along with it.