Panaginip (2/3)

Just after I opened my eyes, I pulled the notebook under my pillow. With the fastest movement of my hands, I tried to chronicle all the things the whole night has caused. I was chasing with the memoirs rushing to drip-out―just like a terrified gazelle escaping from a tiger’s claws. Gazelles are very agile. Untamed—they don’t plan to end up in a tiger’s plate. But then, tigers are exceptional they are ferocious―they are ambitious dreamers. I have seen myself as a determined tiger trying to amass all the gazelles of memories. Those memories fed my hungry soul.

There are times when I feel like I did not sleep. I thought I have just closed my eyes when suddenly I would notice the rays of the sun invading my room. These are the nights when dreams were very rare. No matter how hard I hold my pen, I could not write anything.

There are also times when I feel like the nights are too long. Unwanted thoughts relentlessly visit during my sleep. No matter how hard I try to block them, they’re just too strong for my memory to mislay. Whenever those recollections unfortunately remain until morning, I just throw my pen to prohibit myself from writing. Memories are very playful; those dreams which you want to cherish are very elusive, while the nightmares which you want to forget often haunts inside your head.

I have been writing my dreams for quite a long time. I remember the nights when I patiently waited for dreams to visit. I had been enjoying the activity until all the futures emerged in the form of nightmares. Usually, they were about losing important persons in my life (which later on crossed into reality). That was the time when I had decided to stop the folly. That was the time when I was stuck into regrets because I did not even reveal the premonitions before they were realized. That was the time when I had stopped dreaming my future.

“— she appeared in my dreams last night. The dreams were not about fairytales; not about typical teenager’s fantasy nor it was about us. There was no protagonist; no knight in shining armor; no prince dancing with her princess and there’s no need to have those.  There was no story. I mean, the dream contained no clear series of events.

She was the only character—she was the story and everything about the dream. It was about her blurry image laid in a black dimension. Wanting to make the image vivid, I found myself persevering to draw her face. I tried, but then my memory failed to remember every single detail of it. The more I tried to grasp the details, the more I lost them. I glanced t her face the second time. This time we contemplated in the realm of silence. The stare was hard to comprehend—it holds an emotion between frigidity and anguish... Though we did not converse in the wilderness my brain concocted, the meaning of the stare was clear…”

Later, I would lie on my bed again. I would be dreaming. In those dreams, I do not want to see your odd stares. I do not want to feel frustrated about my memory―its inability to remember the details of your face. I want to see your smile. I want to witness your endearing sense of charm (again).

If the infinity every time I see your colorful wings only happens in dreams; I should start finding my way to oblivion. 

I should bury every page of this notebook and never hold my pen again.

*I've written this note for the Luna Moth. Because her days are too short, she was not able to read it(she refused).