I suppose that the only moment I will ever open up myself to the world is when I’m on the autopsy table. Lingering stares, prodding and probing with the flesh and bones of my body; yet, my flesh is cold and as pale as the shivering moon, and my bones are weakened and sharply broken on the inside, like I’ve always been and always will be. Broken.
A dreamer, I would call myself. Wishful thinking. I blindly follow my hopes and aspirations until my eyes are glazed over and I plead for something, anything to keep me going. I’m a little too addicted to easiness, simplicities, wanderlust remedies, and like a child that has no sense of restriction or disregard, I keep on coming back for more. I’m childish in my own selfish way, wandering too far into the forest of my central brain. I lie down, motionless, in a dreamlike state-of-mind.
Sometimes, I miss the feeling of living.
Of course, everyone would assume that I’m dead. I make no effort or attempt to move. My heartbeat stills, slowly, surely, yet oh so patiently, and I just sit and wait, like any obedient child would. I miss the feeling of living. (Doesn’t everyone?). I feign innocence. They cut me open, digging deep into the crevice of my red, plump heart with a motion of disregard, and cradle my warmth in their calloused hands. Terrible, she died from a broken heart. (Oh, doesn’t everyone?).
My world is a swarm of blues, purples, and pinks, a cotton candy serendipity, a safe haven, or perhaps a dream. I could gaze at the sky forever. It’s dizzying my vision of infatuation. The sun is never-ending, waving at me with its gentle touch on my skin; and, in this reality, I stare directly at the sun, taunting the game of whoever could look away first. I stare. I wait. And the sun grimaces, sinking into the horizon, and a smile stretches across the tightness of my face. I win.
Sometimes, I miss the feeling.
I suppose that, when I die, I want to live up in the stars. The night sky seems so empty, so unforgiving, so cold. Could the stars hear me, if I scream loud enough? Could I hear the stars, if the silence is deafening? Chaotic symphony of the stars, I realize. As my light in the world flickers, dimming with uneasiness, until I’m nothing but the peaceful darkness I envelop myself within. At least I have the moon as company until daytime.
She died from a broken heart. Well, how could she love? Who believed in love? She was foolish, a love-struck jester, for allowing her heart to open and swallow whole. She should build her walls, her barriers, her shield of emotional armor, high above the sky, until it gently brushes against the clouds. What an odd feeling it is, to love wholeheartedly and expect nothing in return. Foolish, she was. Throw her heart away, as her heart is growing cold.
Dear dream, can I ask you one more question? I promise I’ll make it quick.
Am I living in a dream, or a nightmare?
I found that, within the literary balance that is my writing, a whole lot of scrambled meaning comes out of it. I’ve stated in prior points of my blog that I can never explain my writing, and I’m not sure whether the linkage between my brain to yours is even possible. I try my best to make means of what I write (if it can be typed, it can be explained, right?) so I’ll try my very best to decipher the present.
I chose specific words / meanings / sentences that relate to my blog. That, my fellow reader, is the one purposeful act of my writing. I constantly repeated the relation of dream because of my blog url, a quite literal “dear dream”. I referenced dear dream at the end, when I turned a dream into a more personified and physical kind of being. Celestial bodies were also mentioned: the sun, stars, and moon. The name of my blog is cindy’s ☾, a reference towards the beauty of my favorite symbolism and writing piece. “At least I have the moon as company until daytime.” is the one simple sentence that demonstrates how I truly feel about the moon. Finally, I mentioned the colors of blue, purple, and pink (the only use of color, may I add) since they were the main colors of my blog. Plus, if I were in a dream-like world, that’s the colors I would envision it as. I thought it was clever while I was writing…?
The literalness of my actual writing – a division between the physical body during death and the wanderer of the soul – is something I won’t go into depth in. I find that my long, unnecessary (I think?) descriptions are a disconnect from the imagery that a writing can create, so whatever a mind can conjure is truly enough meaning. (Also, I don’t think I can explain it that well. I don’t know what I was writing).
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