Just summarising a few dreams I have had in the recent past. I suppose some references and things are relevant to things that have been happening. I like to jump from different tenses and first-person/third-person.


THREE COLOURS

It felt so ironic to be walking through the sands of time. He had heard that phrase before countless times. Now, as he momentarily buries his feet into the prickling grains, he truly understands what it means. Deep brown eyes flicker from the sand, to the water, to the sun and back again. Those three distinct colours burn themselves into him; he blinks more and more heavily, unable to rid himself of the distinct scene.

Walking forward is all he knows how to do at this point.

He watches his legs as they follow one after the other. He has a name. It might have been Gabrielle. For the time being, Gabrielle refers to himself as Gabrielle. Not that it really matters at this point. The fact that his pale body is naked and he doesn't realise who he is or what he once was doesn't bother him. All that matters is the deep blue sea beckoning to him; the hot, red sun above him and sandy soil underneath him.

After many hours of walking, of reminiscing, he finds himself at the very edge where the water and the sands meet. Gabrielle looks out at the penetrating blue ocean in front of him, awing at its stillness and its colour. He isn't sure whether or not he should walk into the water or stare out at it for hours more, letting its colour and its lack of movement ingrain into the depths of his mind.

He's already taken the first step, however. One foot's firmly planted in the hot sand and one foot is perched on the water's surface. Gabrielle takes his other foot from the sand, and he finds himself standing on the water. Confident, he takes another step. And another. Gabrielle in running now, hysterical at the thought of not standing, but running on water. It feels so good, it feels so natural. Brown eyes are fixated on the never ending ocean ahead of him, trying to make sense of the lack of a sky ahead of him.

To his disappointment, he starts to fall through the water. Slowly but surely, his entire body becomes engulfed and he lets himself fall through the murky depths. He never liked the sensation of falling, but this is slow and calming, much like the repetitive caresses of a mother when the day is done. Gabrielle still wishes he could be on the water, running.

Gabrielle has been walking, now, for years. When he falls through the water, he falls into the sand again. He follows the hot, red sun right back to the blue ocean and falls through it. It is a cycle that cannot be broken and he accepts that. He doesn't age, he doesn't have human needs. He just keeps walking, thinking back to the past he has never experienced. This cycle doesn't bother him, for he only longs to run on the water for a few moments longer. Sometimes, though, when he is walking, he wishes that someone was walking beside him. He wishes he wasn't so alone all of the time.

What came first: the chicken or the egg?
What came first: the chicken or the egg?
What came first: the chicken or the egg?
What came first: your sins or Jesus Christ?

Gabrielle is no longer walking through the sands of time, alone. Instead, he is curled up in a fetal position somewhere along the edge of the universe, pondering paradoxes.


BOYS

He didn't know what possessed him to burst out of that house, batteries at hand, but he did. The door slammed behind him and he took a few clumsy, hopeless steps before he fell onto the perfectly cut grass. Delicate hands splayed over the dropped batteries in some pitiful attempt to protect whatever might be in the perfect suburban air from harming the AA batteries.

When assured that his batteries were safe, the opportunity came to look up from his precious, precious batteries. Grey eyes lingered on his batteries for a few moments longer before he slowly peered around him. It seemed odd to him to see rows and rows of adjacent houses , with grass lawns in little square shapes. It seemed odd only because the neighbourhood was perfect and the weather was not. From what seemed to be the most generic, yet appealing, of all neighbourhoods the skies laid in ruins above. Fake gods taunted him and the rows of houses by throwing dark clouds in front of a perfectly blue sky. It was so dark, it was so dismal, that it bathed everything in a grungy blue; instead of staring clearly at what was ahead of you, your senses were muddled and you suddenly found yourself clawing at the empty space ahead of you.

Daniel did exactly that.

Wispy fingers cut at the air in a pathetic attempt to make the world around him less darker and the pretty, white houses more desirable. Right now, he couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying, if he was awake or asleep. Maybe, he soon would wake up to the world he had forgotten all about. He doubted that. He felt a little stupid, sitting there behind his batteries, clawing at the sky.

And then the boy, oh, the boy. He seemed to manifest from the heavy, dark air and he seemed to radiate from the dark like the kind of light Daniel was hoping for. In all aspects, he was one of the most beautiful things to exist. Daniel cannot remember exactly what he looked like, but he can remember his radiating beauty. That boy, whoever he was, was exactly what Daniel needed in his life. That boy could have been the pretty, little thing that would make Daniel's life less shitty, less pointless. Daniel would stare at him for hours, he might touch him, and he would feel complete. Not even necessarily to have a relationship with the boy, but for him just to be there. For his presence to be always near, always for Daniel.

Right now, however, the boy was sitting on the porch, cross-legged and wide-eyed. Daniel looked up at him, awed and wondered. He was still hunched over his batteries, not wanting to leave them there, but he wanted to go to the porch and touch the boy. He wanted to caress his face, he wanted to feel his soft hair against his clumsy hands. This was so perfect, in all of its chaos and confusion. The boy just sat there, beautiful and real.

The boy, in all of his perfection, started to talk. He was speaking in tongues unimaginable to Daniel. Broken and choppy, his words were confusing and depressing. His voice was soft and beautiful, but his words were incoherent and incomprehensible. Daniel wanted nothing more than to understand his beautiful words and contradictive facial expressions, but he couldn't. The more he listened, the more he became afraid and saddened. He focused in on his face, the palms of his hands sweating. The boy got louder and Daniel became even more frightened.

Daniel couldn't take it anymore. This radiating light was suddenly a bright, bloody red. Scooping his batteries up, he ran down the street, trying to find his way out of the depressing sky and perfect neighbourhood. Daniel began to cry, wanting the beautiful boy so badly. He walked out of that neighbourhood, he ran to hell.

STOP LOOKING AT ME, GET AWAY FROM ME

I’ve never liked school. These children, these people, these souls worry and aggravate mine. I cannot help but look around, nervously tugging at whatever was in my grips, struggling to smile at the faces of the people who judge. Now, I’ve always lived by the pursuit to stay oblivious to certain things, but I cannot help but wonder about their scrutiny, their harsh thoughts. There is always something off about me, whether it is in physique or mannerisms or mind, and they notice it. They notice it and reflect back my painfully obvious faults in their cold stares. Soon, sitting here in the middle of Hell, I convince myself that I may have done something to deserve this situation, this rage. However hard I try, light eyes focusing on the specks on the ground, I cannot think of anything. I sit here, baffled and high-strung.

There you are. I wonder how you manage to get next to me, unnoticed. But the room is white with four walls, rows of seats perfectly aligned, with no overseer in sight. It would be easy for anything to happen, for people to get up and out of their sits, run around wildly and chase each other hysterically, but the room remains silent. These souls are turned around, paying attention to nothing and finishing the work they are making up for themselves. You stick out like a sore thumb, your desk crooked and between aisles. I don’t say anything when you find yourself next to me; in fact, my gaze is still lowered, thumbs twiddling with a pencil.

“Do you want me to help you?” You ask suddenly, and I look up to meet your solid stare. You have small features on a pretty face, with glowing eyes, but your facial expression doesn’t seem to match. It is too impassive for such a nice face, almost cold. It makes me nervous and my forced, yet radiating smile presses into a tight line.

“Oh, I don’t know,” My voice is more fluid, softer. I stare down at the papers on my desk, realising their existence, wishing they weren’t there. The questions printed neatly on the paper must seem easy to you, but they baffle me. These questions in front of me cover every area of instruction, every area of life. Now I know that if I focused hard enough, took enough time and effort, surely and slowly I could answer these questions with some accuracy. But I figure that the only reason you came over here is because time is running short and you wanted me to have these questions answered.

“Let me see your paper,” You say again, your words choppy and your voice unchanged. My small hands pull back, resting on my lap and you take the paper without further hesitation. I watch you, your entire body, as your eyes wander through the paper and as your left leg twitches. You smile, sort of, but it could be mistaken as a frown. I see in your face that you see the ease of the questions and the insignificance of my worries. I feel like a child now, lacking knowledge that I know I will never learn. Your pretty face morphs into the faces of people that have looked at me as a young girl, a silly child. I look up into these faces with hate, knowing that I was more mature and I am more mature. I hate these faces, these people. I want your face back. I would much rather hate myself than others. It’s better that way.

Your little face returns and I ease in my seat. You finish my test for me, pushing the papers back onto my desk. You look at me and I want to know what you are thinking. You smile at me again, but it kind of looked like a frown, and then it is definitely a frown. Your frown eases up and the expression on your face is blank, but you are still looking at me. However, your eyes have this sad look to them, even almost angry.

“Get away from me,” I don’t want you to leave, but I don’t want to seem so stupid. Telling you to leave is a smart thing to do. You oblige silently, and that is the last time I see you.

HE HAD A LOT TO DO, THAT BOY

"You know they say when it's raining, it means God is crying."

God must have been a very depressed man, if that were true. In this little town of Massachusetts rain was the only thing that was seen for days and days. It fell in sheets over everything and left the dirt on the sides of the roads ten shades darker and ten pounds thicker.

Somewhere behind my house, lopsided and old, is a great, big river. It snakes through our unimportant town and makes beautiful sounds of water rushing. I am a little boy, antisocial and constantly frustrated. I walk to the river and peer into it, it's waters reflecting back a jagged and shadowy figure of a thin boy.

Life's hard. I think I found out about that when my father got more aggressive and my mother got more passive. The fact that we had no money and my parents were faced with long work hours didn't help. School didn't help. The children were quick to judge my ways; they were quick to call me stupid. I think all of these realisations lead me to the river more, whispering and all-knowing.

Soon, the reflection started talking back to me. We talked for hours and hours, until it got dark and my father would call into the night, angry and drunk. I'd come back the very next day, with a new bruise to show or a new frightening story to share. Sometimes I would just cry, a frustrated, little boy I was. He listened and he comforted me as much as he could, letting me cry.

Soon after that, I wanted to be on the other side with him, free and untouchable. He told me I could, and that I could be with him and I wouldn't have to deal with anything or anyone. It would be a utopia, a utopia comprised of two kings and just two kings. Even then, it sounded better than the life I had now.

I fell into the rushing river a week later. It was hard for to me to because it was cold and my older brother was calling for me. He pulled me in though, his larger arms wrapping around my little body. I was frightened and delighted at the same time. It was cold and my lungs felt as if they were to burst, but I soon sank to the bottom. I wanted to call out "What now everybody?! I'm finally free! I'm not in hell no more and you will always be! Are you going to call me stupid now?" But I could only feel to move my small hands, working their way into the river floor, and I could only feel the river soil smothering me.

I'm free now. It is nice and dark and sometimes he comes to talk to me. This is the utopia, he tells me. But I think I am just dead. Whatever state I am, or wherever I rest, it is better than the house by the river.