rambles

The closest I can describe to how I am these days is this: I dread waking up in the morning; and I look forward to sleeping every night. Whenever I am awake, I wish I wasn't.

Bane

This is what I wrote for my SPM. Wanted to sort of 'immortalise' what I wrote while it's still fresh in my mind. When I saw the prompts for this year's Continuous Writing, I legit let out a loud 'URGH'. Seriously.

1. Describe an important family celebration and how you felt about it. (weddings are really boring)

2. There is a lack of freedom given to teenagers today. Do you agree?(i dont wanna write about oppression for my spm)

3. Why are animals important to human beings? (er. meat?? and cute cat pictures online to coo at when you're depressed)

4. Write a story about a fisherman beginning with: "The wind blew strongly. Out at sea..."(huh, i can make a plot twist out of this)

5. 'A friend in need is a friend indeed.' Describe how a friend helped you in a difficult time. (once, elysa  told me to calm the fuck down???)

They bloody left out the one-word essay and didn't compensate for it in terms of excitement. But I guess, it was a test to our imagination. I wrote number 4. Here it goes: 

                                                               Bane 

               The wind blew strongly. Out at sea, there was no such thing as stagnant air. The sound of the wind would sometimes be deafening to ears that were not used to it. Bane stood at the bow of his small, old, motorised fishing boat with its anchors down. He balanced himself on the rocking vessel as his mind buzzed with hopes that the catch today would be abundant. Due to safety reasons, he usually did not go fishing alone but his partner, and bestfriend, Felix, was down with the cold. His family depended on the income he would get from the market when he sells his catch, so he couldn't afford to miss that one day of fishing. 

             Bane was 40 years of age, had specks of silver in his hair, and calloused hands. For a man his age, Bane was still very fit and healthy, as his quotidian rituals involved physical strength. He thought that being poor was a gift. Most of the rich in the cities weren't as healthy as he was. Exposed to smoke from the industrial sites and motored vehicles, as well to fast and processed food. He couldn't afford any of those, but he didn't mind. He heard that the chemicals in their food made them sick with cancer. The rich were also too caught up in the materialistic world, that they didn't have time to sit back and enjoy nature, whereas he saw the picturesque vista of the big blue every day. He appreciated the sound of gulls and the smell of salt in the air. He heard that the rich were so busy, that sometimes they couldn't see their families for months on end. 

            Caught in his own reality, he jumped at the unexpected flash of blinding white light followed by the vociferous sound of thunder from above. He looked up and witness the heavens opened. Quickly, he raised the anchor and made way to steer the boat back to shore. He tried to steer the boat starboard but the currents were already taking control of the vehicle and pulled it away from the shore, further into the perilous storm. The boat was rocking violently, spinning. He saw, further up, a colossal whirlpool, a maelstrom about 10 kilometres in diameter. He knew that he was going to get swallowed by the vortex. He prayed one last time, to any higher sentient being listening in. He has accepted his fate as the boat approached the abyss. He was not going to close his eyes. Bane expected darkness soon as he felt the vessel turn, and threw him about, but au contraire! He saw a plethora of effulgent colours almost blinding his vision. And soon, he realised that the world was not spinning anymore, and that the sea was calm, and he was breathing. He rubbed his eyes and looked up.

             He was looking at the most beautiful sunset he had ever seen. The cerulean sky was tinted with dancing warm colours that radiated a kind of subtle heat that he felt on his skin. The light made the ocean sparkle like gems reflected in firelight. He witnessed the sun set with eyes sequestered behind pools of tears. As the last ray disappeared on the horizon, again he expected the night to fall like a black sheet, and again, he was wrong. As the sky was now exhibiting a light show by the milky way. The stars illuminated the world around him so brightly, it was as though the sun was still in the sky. The most accurate description of the night sky was an animated version of Vincent Van Gogh's piece, 'Starry Night'. He sobbed as he basked in the arcadian atmosphere. I must be dead, he thought, as no living man would have been able to witness such beauty and not boast of it for decades on end. There would have been paintings and stories, although I know that none of that would do this creation justice. 

               After what seemed like hours of staring at the heavens above, he finally brought his eyes down to the ocean, and fell back in surprise after seeing the thousands of bodies floating in the water. No, not bodies. They were all incorporeal, like ghosts, wafting in the ocean, dissolving in the salt water. Men, women, and children were all present. They weren't holding hands with each other but seemed to all be clutching to things. Some were toys, cellphones, briefcases, money, and jewels. They were more concerned to not let go of their possessions rather than the fact that they were disappearing into foam by the semblance of harmless water. Their faces were pale and at unrest. Bane had no choice but to continue sailing on, until sunrise came and he cried once again at the disappearance of the sky above him and the ghosts beneath him. He sailed on until midday, where he found that he was back at his familiar waters, and stopped at the shore. As soon as he wanted to dock his boat, it started sinking into the water, bubbling away into the sea. He didn't care, for he was back at his small village beaconing to him in welcome.

            Except, it wasn't his village, his home. It was, but it wasn't. His village hard turned into an industrialised city, where there were tar roads and skyscrapers. People weren't wearing the simple, tattered clothes anymore, but fancy, tailored suits. He couldn't find his home, nor his family. He couldn't find Felix, and he found it difficult to breathe in the air. 

            After dealing with the confusion and fear of losing his family, he discovered that he had traveled a century into the future, with no means of going back. 

   

Stressor

Becoming accustomed to that pain,
The centre of your chest,
Your self-esteem slain,
Why, you ask,
Why.
It's for the best.

Self-hatred,
Only cuts can make you feel better,
An escape, a punishment,
For failures of the past,
And the future,
Why, you ask, why.
To make yourself better.

You break your bones,
Laughter at inattention,
Colours and doodles on the cast.
You break your heart,
No pens nor glitter can fix,
Only tears and time.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, they say,
They don't know about disorder,
The malevolence that comes after,
A loathing state of mind,
With no rapturous subconscious,
All towards yourself,
For the past you can't put aside,
For the beast within you try your best to hide.

Get a grip, they say,
Buck up,
Stop it,
You're being emotional,
Keep your priorities straight.

They do not understand.

They do not
Understand

You Should Have Kept Your Hood On

I found that I had boarded the wrong bus. I realised after it took a different turning, driving too off tangent from the route it was supposed to take in order for me to get to the bus stop near my home. I suppressed a groan and looked around. Besides the sound of the retiring engine and other cars passing by, it was an eery silence. The usual chatter of women gossiping and arguments from businessmen on the phone were entirely absent. Everyone was quiet and still, aside from the on and off shuffling of legs and craning of heads. Dafuq, I thought as I leaned back into the tattered leather seat, eyebrows knitting together. I'll get off the next stop, then. Shouldn't take more than ten minutes. Why does shit like this always happen to me?

Almost twenty minutes passed and the bus still hasn't stopped. It was around 7.30 pm when I first boarded it, now that the sun has set, it was already dark outside. The bus had taken me to a part of the town I never knew existed. The road was unfamiliar to me, and the buildings looked old, probably designed based on the colonial era. Even so, most of them looked run down and abandoned. The street lamps were dim, and weren't much help with illumination. For the past twenty minutes I never heard a sound coming from any of the passengers. I looked at the woman sitting next to me. She was dressed in a black robe, almost like a nun's habit. Her dark hair curtained her pale poker face. She was staring into space, eyes zoned out.

'Excuse me', I broke the silence with a mere whisper.

All 30 plus people on the bus snapped their heads at me, glaring at me through unnaturally wide eyes. I ignored them and directed my question to the woman. 'Sorry, but, er, where is this bus heading? I think I got on the wrong one', I said sheepishly. She looked at me and blinked once, twice, and then turned her head back in front and continued to stare at the parallel passenger's head.

Wow. Thanks for the helpful information. Someone give this bitch a Nobel prize, I thought while rolling my eyes. I was becoming uneasy. Another ten minutes passed without the bus giving any indication of stopping. It was completely dark outside, too dark for the naked eye to see anything but trees that appeared and disappeared from the light emitting from the bus. I concluded that we had already left the city, for there were no buildings to be seen.

I was very exhausted. That was partly the reason why I didn't do anything sooner. I checked my phone, which battery I was preserving. No signal. My mind started racing. This is a public bus. Have I been kidnapped? It didn't make sense for 30 people to kidnap me. I didn't know any of these mofos, too. Was this some sort of cult?

Only then I realised that everyone on the bus was wearing the same black robes the woman next to me wore. They all had the same blank expression, and there were no children at all. I started panicking. 'Is this a kidnap?' I asked aloud in a strained voice that was leaking with fear. I expected them to snap their heads at me again, but to my pleasant surprise, they ignored me. I stood up from my seat, almost falling backwards. I cleared my throat and gathered what little confidence I had left. 'If this is a kidnapping, I'll have you know that my father is chief inspector!' I shouted.

Ignored.

'Fuck ya'll, I've had enough of this', I muttered to myself and began to walk to the driver seat, trying my best to ignore the silence that was painfully deafening. While balancing myself on the rocking vehicle, I reached to the front of the bus, and in a few steps, to the bus driver only to find out...

... There wasn't one. The bus was driving itself. I sat on the seat and tried to hit the brake pedal. It wouldn't budge. I reached out for the steering wheel and tried to divert it off the road. It wouldn't turn. I took out my phone again. 'Please, please, please', I said again and again as I started to sob. I dialled 911 eventhough I knew I couldn't get a reception. I thought of breaking the window and jumping off, wondering whether I could survive the fall. At this speed, I would have a better chance fighting off these fuckers with my hands tied up. As I was about to give up and slump on the seat, the steering wheel turned anti-clockwise and changed its course. The bus started slowing down. It reached its destination. I planned to make a run for it as soon as the bus opened its doors, but before I could even move, a pair of strong, stone cold hands grabbed my arms painfully and held me in place. I struggled, and without notice, was knocked out by an unknown blunt force.

I woke up in the middle of a clearing. The field stretched out as far as my eyes could see in the dark. The only light was from the fire torches flickering, held by robed, hooded figures. They stood in a circle and I was the centre. My hands and legs were tied to a wooden pole that was stuck to the ground. More wood surrounded me. I was wet. Doused in kerosene, my thoughts immediately went to the darkest side of my mind.

'What do you want?' I shouted at no particular figure. 'Please! If you want money, I have money! Just please don't- don't hurt me!'

With that, one of the hooded figures walked out of the circle and walked towards me. My chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself. I couldn't breathe in the panic. 'Please. I have a family. Just let me go. I beg you', I pleaded once more.

The figure stopped right in front of my face, shadows casted from the torched made him look sinister. He took his hood off. I choked back vomit.

'Daddy?' I sobbed. 'Daddy, why?'

'You're my first born, baby. My sacrifice. Thank you.'

Only Human

'The fuck are ya starin' at, ya ancient piece of shit?' the youth with skull tattoos drawn like a sleeve on his muscled arm spat at me.
'Nothing', I replied quietly.
'What didtcha say? If ya have some'in t'say, why not say it to my fuckin' face?' he yelled before he slammed his fist onto the metal table, flipping over my half-finished meal. Several guards came and then started beating him up. And then turned to me and started beating me up as well.

1 week left.

Routines.
Mindless drones they made us into. We were treated less than human, because we are. Because you were only human if you had compassion and empathy, if you contributed back to society. We didn't. We harmed society and then continued to leech off the country's resources like parasites that plagued mankind. We deserved every single abuse, all the times where our basic human rights were taken away, more than what we deserved, more than what the system demanded. Because we were less than human.

The first half of my life was wonderful. My parents, my wife, my children, my career. That was why it took them so long to catch me. A happy man, why would he do such horrible things? Tailored suits, travelled only first class, the typical suburban dad who belonged to a perfect family and the demographic that the government demanded less from because they were already contributing to the nation's economic growth. But then they did catch me. I must admit, it was complacency on my side.

5 days.

'You ever got fucked before?' a voice asked me. I ignored it and turned over to the other side of my hard mattress.
'You're so fucking old, I'm sure you have', it continued. 'What was it like? Was it the same if you did it with little girls? See, I thought all of 'em cried when they get fucked. Didn't know the bigger ones enjoyed it. I tried to make 'em quiet, see? Thought if I kept 'em in a room full of pretty toys and dolls, they wouldn't cry, see? But, no. They still fucking cried', I heard a bang in the room next to me before I fell asleep.

3 days.

My wife left me, even though I was the one who physically went away, she took away our children and engineered them into hating me. She thought I wasn't human, because of the 'lack of love'. It wasn't true. She was the love of my life and our children filled up an empty hole I never knew I had until they were gone. She was a hypocrite. Throughout the 15 years we built, she kept on preaching about respect and open-mindedness, how just because other people think differently, it didn't mean that they were wrong. When she found out about my actual hobby and interests, when I opened up to her thinking she would love me more, she broke down and cried. That was my downfall, and like I said, complacency on my side.

The other half of my life I spent in what I could describe as being sucked into a black hole of pain. Physical, emotional, there wasn't any difference between the two anymore. I learnt to live with it, to accept it as a part of my life and soon enough, I was resilient to the pain they purposely inflicted upon me. The beatings, the memories they brought up again and again.

1 day.

Pancakes and blueberry syrup. I wrote on the paper. I used to wake up early on Sundays and cook them with my children. They would put them on a big serving plate and take them to the room while my wife pretended to sleep. They wanted her to wake up with a surprise. She always acted the part for them, and they would buy it, even if it was a routine.

2 hours.

Here I am sitting in a darkly lit room, to be with my thoughts. In two hours, I would be put down for something I did nearly 3 decades ago. It didn't matter that I repented. That I would take it all back with a blink of an eye, that I would kill myself just to prove it. I suffered with the guilt and now it was time to suffer no more.

54 minutes.

As I walked towards the chair in shackles, every step was a clang produced by metal against metal. There was no dread. Only excitement leading up to relief. I didn't belong in this world.

'Any last words?' they asked. I shook my head. Last words were for humans. I was not human. I could never be human.

Wouldn't you rather live in an illusion?
Though what a lie an illusion is,
Wouldn't you rather be happy with a lie
Rather than suffer with the truth?

.

The Empty Child

She sighed,
And she let go of her worries and her strife.
She sighed,
And she let go of her loss and her anguish.
She sighed,
And she let go of love and happiness.
She sighed,
And she let go of her emotions.

For what is heartbreak, and anguish,
and love, and pain, and envy,
without emotions manipulating her thoughts.

She sighed,
For the last time,
and let go of her life.

Untitled.

And he looked at me with pity. Melancholy I saw through his long, thick lashes. In a sombre voice, he whispered.

"You're not her."

I'm supposed to read up on russia but russia is weird

"I'm a debater," I whisper as I read up on the History of Socialism.

"I'm a debater," I murmur as I research on Cyprus' failed economy.

"I'm a debater," I tell myself as I scroll down Wikipedia's page on the Israel-Palestine conflict.

"I'M A DEBATER!!" I yell when someone accidently opens my Google Chrome to view multiple tabs on Sex Air BnB.

Ocean Storm

I stopped, turned around and looked him in the eyes. They reminded me of an ocean storm, exactly the dangerous gray colour of the low hung clouds. I could almost hear the waves crashing, thunder booming above and cracks of lightning. As dull the colour gray goes, his eyes were striking, and they held my gaze in the sea full of people.

His long, thin lips quirked up at the corners as he moistened them slightly. He blinked once more and then turned to walk away.  Before I could follow him, he was already lost in the crowd.

That was the first encounter I had with the epitome of "tall, dark and handsome". He hadn't given me a clue to what he wanted when he tapped lightly on my shoulder that day. None of him looked familiar. I would have remembered his chiseled face anywhere. The only thing that kept me tugging at my memories were his eyes. I know I have not seen them before, but the image that I kept was incorporeal, as though I had seen them in a dream. 

The second time was during my parent's anniversary dinner. I had dressed up for the occasion, entering the embellished restaurant and taking a seat in front of my sister. We were right in the middle of the story of how our parents met, which we had already heard dozens of times- when I saw him again. He was in a dark gray suit that matched his eyes, complete with an orange silk tie. He was exiting the restaurant when our eyes locked. He smiled nonchalantly at me and then left, leaving me staring after the still swinging glass door.

The third time, though. The third time answered all of my questions.

After carrying out my quotidian rituals, it was almost midnight when I was walking back to my apartment. My pace was fast, I didn't want to risk spending more time in the late hour of an empty street. But as the saying goes, douchebags will be douchebags and no matter how you dress, rape is inevitable. At least, there should be one. 

I was cornered by three men, pepper spray already knocked out of my hand. My bag was dropped, and my shirt was torn. They took me then and there, on the cold, disgusting alley floor. They laughed at my begs and whimpers, and slapped me at my cries. After awhile, I didn't feel anything. All was numb.

And then all was pain. In my ribs, my arms, my legs, my face. They kept at it for awhile, until I felt a cold piercing in my chest. Warmth trickled and spread across my body. And they left me there. To bleed to death, trying to breathe with punctured lungs, gaping like fish out of water. 

At first, all I could see was the dark sky above, no such twinkle of stars, not even the faint glow of the Moon was present. Then I saw his eyes, and they didn't remind me of a storm anymore, but a calm ocean at dawn.

"Hey there, Clara," he whispered softly in a modulated voice, like an angel. "My name is Raziel, the Angel of Death." So he was an angel. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," I whispered back, letting my eyes close. The last thing I felt was his warm lips on mine, ready to carry me to the afterlife.  

Prompt #1

Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

People had always called me weird when I was a child. They kept giving me sidewards glances whispering to each other 'Look, there's that kid who tried skinning Mrs. Jankis' cat.' Do you know how frustrating it was, to hear that all at the age of 6? Just got into kindergarten, just stopped sucking my thumb a week before? To hear such inaccurate stories? People need to learn the facts before spreading rumours. I totally skinned that cat. Alive, too. Gosh.

Then at 12 I realised that no, hurting animals just won't do it. Even the sound of their whimpers, seemingly begging for me to stop, looking at me with puppy dog eyes, -in which case, at most times where actual puppy eyes- won't bring me the sadistic pleasure I seek. I discovered my fetish when I pushed this little girl in pink off the swing. She scraped her knees and then cried like I just stomped on  her face. I wanted too, in fact. But then I saw her tears, falling down her reddened cheeks, the sound of her uncontrollable sobs, her wailing, the snot dripping down from her cute button nose. I loved that. The fact that I scarred her not physically, but emotionally. You can plaster a band-aid on a cut, but wounds that travels directly to a person's soul is much harder to heal. Trauma by torture? Nah, too much effort. 

So there we were, 20 years later. She sat there strapped on the chair, eyes big and glistening with the fearful tears, terrified of what would happen next. I whispered to her 'Shhh, it'll all be over soon. I just want to see you break down and cry like your mother just died.' 

And then I put on Grave of the Fireflies. 

A poem by me.

I am feeling down and angry and disappointed and stressed and sad and so I wrote this poem to describe how I feel 

Hajahqoshwiqhhsbbyqigsoa,

Jahahwiqhushqkdywgbaojsgwy aishqi,

Hahahqhshautwusvsyqhs,

Tqietqondbaiqo,

Pawywywisbaowgwisgaheuwy,

Iahwifakshjqsia,

Iauwuahhatqidgajgquwgajsiqhsoacis,

Jahshhsihqheyahqiywu. 

Hahutwisusjwhidt, 

Jahtqyywiahaogeiateiagiagsiqhaivquwou,

Jaywiqgsiwystqjsiqhsistwi,

Iwuifnkfiwkhtfjfhehqhfjab,

Jiwjsuwh, 

Kajayhahhahwuroshd,

Uwurignvockxjjwi. 

Uwhehwuqiehfjfjfiwuqoekshw, 

Heiieieowifiisjdjeh Irish kfiuaije,

my thumbs now slamming on the glass of my touch screen phone sounds like a machine gun and so in my head I am shooting someone 

Najshahqhyeowododjqi, iweushwk

Jurysugwuahqidhhw, 

Jwhshehehyeuroeiroquffhe, 

Haheywueieirritnciw

Jarieowifkdiejdi

Jwiruwofueihfuqii 

Sign Language and Star Wars

my first attempt at writing romance. so yeah i apologise in advance. coz i can't write romance to save my life
also, the overuse, of commas, because, i am a douchebag.

Shards of broken glass sliced into my skin, neck was sore from the physical shock of sudden whipping every time the car tumbled and hit the ground. Hair tangled, with every breath I took I felt a sharp pinching at my lungs. A trickle of warmth came down into the corner of my eye. I carefully turned around to the driver's seat and saw Isaac unconscious, head resting on the wheel, surrounded by a plush of white. His nose was probably broken by the air bag and he too was bloodied and bruised. Groaning in pain, I reached for my phone and dialed 911.

I remembered again, the look of despair I have never seen before, etched onto his pale face after we got our treatment at the emergency room. I was fortunate enough to escape with a mild concussion, a few broken ribs and some stitches along my arm. Isaac, though. He was devastated. The doctor gave him a simple, solemn nod and he- the boy I have never seen shed a tear, even when his mother passed away, who was always happy and all smiles- broke down, collapsing to the floor, shoulders jerking sharply up and down sobbing into his hands. Me? I just stood there, shocked, feeling completely useless while trying to hold back the tears pooling up in my eyes. We had been best friends for 4 years. I had to be strong. For him.

We learnt sign language together. He also lost his ability to speak. Psychological shock, the doctor had said, traumatized by both the hearing loss and the accident. He was depressed for awhile but after a few months of sign language, we both mastered it and started to communicate, if not normally, again. He tried his best to stay optimistic and then started to be like his old self again. Bubbly, slightly blur and in his own world, and laughing, always laughing. It wasn't like his old laugh, it wasn't loud and hearty, but more like gasps of air. I accepted it anyway. After all, it wasn't his laugh that made me fall in love with him in the first place. Nor was it his adorable face, or his lean yet muscly build. It wasn't his intelligence nor our similarities.

It was his smile.

The corners of his mouth curving upwards to reveal the rows of his perfect, white teeth, his eyes crinkling. He smiled that way when he sees food, mostly, or when he finds something amusing, or before he pulls a prank on someone, or when he just got the joke 5 minutes later than everyone else. That smile alone could pull me out of my darkest days. It was infectious. Whenever he smiled, I smiled.

I didn't mind that I wasn't going to hear his voice again. I didn't care that he wasn't ever going to hear mine. But it doesn't mean we both didn't miss it. I made a joke about it once, 2 years after the incident.

Today my friends were telling me how annoying I got when we watch Lord of the Rings and I say the lines, I signed. They don't appreciate me showing off my inner geek. Or they just hate my voice.

I remember when you used to do that and I can tell you, your friends have the rights to be annoyed, he signed back, a smile creeping onto his lips.

I made a sarcastic smile that said 'haha very funny except not' and signed back. At least now you don't have to ever hear my annoying voice again, huh? 

Usually when I made a joke about his condition, he would laugh it off, giving me a proper comeback. This time, though. He just smiled sadly at me and then turned towards the television. I didn't bring it up again. It was movie night and we were watching The Matrix (with subtitles. Not that he needed them. He practically knew each and every line). I felt sorry for him and I hated myself for it, mainly because he hated it when people look at him with pity in their eyes and treat him nicely, just because he couldn't hear or speak.

I tried to pay attention to the movie, but my mind wandered to other things. How the situation would be like if it were reversed, how it never would have happened if I hadn't insisted we go watch the release of City of Bones, how he forgave me for dragging him out, making him drive, telling me over and over that it wasn't my fault, that the idiot who rammed into us shouldn't have been driving while clearly intoxicated. But of course it was. If it wasn't for me, he would be able to hear Keanu Reeves' voice, the punches and kicks, the background music, the fan humming, the sniffs I was so desperate to hide. I could never forgive myself for harming the boy I was so in love with.

Birthdays came and went, Christmases, the ultimate finale of Sherlock, and Supernatural was on its 13th season. We became so close that we almost saw each other everyday despite he fact that both of us  were working 5 days a week. It was a Monday morning, 8 years after the accident, 19th of April, when I received his text.

need to see you. 

where? I replied quickly.

hospital. ward 436. Visiting hours just started.

I swear to God, that was the only time I got out of my bed, showered, and drove off under 15 minutes. By the time I arrived, anxiety consumed me whole. I prayed in my heart, out loud, and in between sobs that he was okay. I started assuming the worst, and prayed again that it wasn't it. When the elevator doors sprung open, tears were already running down my face, leaving black outlines from the mascara it washed away. I stopped- heart beating like helicopter blades, panting like I just ran a marathon- outside his ward and composed myself. Pushing the door open, I felt my breath hitch upon seeing him, curly brown hair all mussed up, a smile widening. The nurse was just finishing checking his blood pressure, and had started to jot down something on her clipboard. WTF? I thought. Like, really, block letters just came into my head. If there was a facial expression for ????!!!?!??!?!?!, I would have been wearing that on my face.

What's going on? I signed. His smile was so smug and happy, it was like I was Santa bringing him the complete Classic Who box set for Christmas.

I woke up this morning, he started. I woke up to the sound of my neighbor's dog barking. 

So? What's your point?

Amy! I woke up to the sound of my neighbor's dog barking. He signed slowly this time, to stress on the last few words. My hands flew to my mouth, tears (again? geez) flooding my eyes. I tried to say something and guess what? My voice sounds weird. I came here straight away and they were amazed. They didn't think that it was possible. It's a miracle, they said. So now they're keeping me here for further tests.

'Then why aren't you talking to me now?' I whispered at him for the first time in 8 years.

He looked nervous suddenly. I... don't know what to say to you. It's the first time after so long, I wanted to say something meaningful? You know how sentimental I get.

I walked to him and he stood up, towering above me, his eyes a perfect shade of stormy gray with blue specks bore into mine. 'Don't be afraid', I said softly.

He cleared his throat, and for the first time in 8 years, I heard his voice say the words I have been waiting for ever since the day we met.

'I love you.'

And because my brain doesn't analyse what comes out of my mouth, because I was such a geek, and because I knew that he would get it, I quoted Star Wars.

'I know.'

A Cold Smirk.

Eyes, dark and ever vigilant. Hair, black with fringes scraping delicately below the eyebrows. Skin, pale and smooth like a baby's bottom. Cheekbones, high and prominent. Lips, thin and at the lightest shade of pink, twisted into a cold, evil smirk. 

He stared.

And she stared right back into his intense gaze, his almost-evil sneer, his lean build, his long coat. She noticed how he walked, graceful and certain; light steps on the white snow. His face stood out in the crowd of business men and women, school girls giggling away, children skipping about; all wrapped up in winter clothes. 

Madness. 

She jumped violently at the sudden voice in her head. It was deep and unfamiliar, yet she knew it came from the stranger across the street. She looked at him again just in time to see him turning away, his trench coat swirling behind him as he blend into the crowd. She never saw him again but his face had been seared onto her brain. She wished she had followed him that day but the unexpected warning and her primal instinct told her not to. 

People say not to judge a book by its cover, but sometimes- maybe most times- it was inevitable. Judging a person by first look is human nature, evaluating the worst case scenario before attempting to escape, if you will. An average person of average status, average IQ, and average knowledge of the world would have stayed away from the man who portrayed evil. She wasn't exaggerating. The man had a look that would have silenced the president in a second. 

Yet, she was intrigued. She imagined a splatter of blood splashed across his face and oh, she was intrigued. And her curiosity had almost nothing to do with the fact that she had heard his voice in her head. Somehow, she didn't even give that a second thought. She just wished she saw him again. She wished she had followed. 

She became obsessed with him after that, speaking of a mysterious man with telepathic powers who lead a cult of similar people with similar abilities. Finally after almost 6 years into her obsession that became more and more worrying, Ava Lancaster was admitted into Bethlem Royal Hospital For Mental Illnesses at the age of 28 and was diagnosed with schizophrenia. 

Manifestation of the subconscious mind...?

So this is my essay I wrote for my Mid-Terms. I found the marks my teacher graded me with was justified. I realised only after that I could have done better. Out of 5 choices, I picked this one because I was simply in the mood for a little philosophy. Oh, and I have never actually seen The Matrix and I don't believe that reality and logic is overrated. So to the ghosts that I assume are floating about behind my shoulders, enjoy! 

5. Dreams.

         I stood there at the very top of the steep cliff. Barefooted, the grass tickled my feet in a pleasant way. The wind blew my long hair, whipping it across my face as I overlooked the sapphire-blue ocean. The water glittered like gems when it caught the Sun's ray of warmth. 

         This was my freedom, my escapade. No one was there to tell me to step away from the edge. No one was there to tell me to put my favourite flip-flops on. It was peace and serenity in the purest and simplest of forms. 

It was a dream.

         What are dreams? Are dreams just an escape from reality? A way to disenfranchise oneself from the world of constant strain and antagonism? I guess a dream differs from person to person. It can be a manifestation of the subconscious mind, something you crave for or somebody you lust. An ambition or a title you plan for your fantasy future. It can be from the past as you reminisce to an event you sorely want repeated or it can be unreal, delusional and the most pellucid form of radical nonsense.

         Quite similar to the question on life, there is no specific answer to what a dream is. But I am certain that you can never stop a person from dreaming. As opposed to reality, dreams tend to be quite wonderful. A gateway to heaven or a bridge to amity. Who wants to accept reality? It's overrated anyway.

        Like an explicit scene censored, my dreams are as unclear as the pixelated vestige of a stranger's past life. I dream of myself with unlimited knowledge of the universe and the power to soar through the clouds of uncertainty and cowardice. I dream of a utopian world without poverty, violence, traumas and heartaches from wars and abuse. Sometimes my dreams are out of this world, like time-traveling with an alien called the Doctor who wears bow-ties and thinks that no one is unimportant. Sometimes my dreams are simple, just to achieve enough in life to see the tears of joy forming in my mother's wise eyes.

       I sit and ponder. What if reality was, in fact a dream? This world we live in, the stress, the joy of being with friends, the hollow we sometimes feel, the flavours of life, was just something we play in our heads and our dreams were real? Maybe I'm in denial of reality or maybe I've been watching too much of The Matrix. 

        Dreams are what makes a person human. It is a melting pot of emotions painted with ecstatic beauty into vibrant images in a person's mind. It is a sign of hope; that not everything in this world we live in is truly bad. It is a sweet escape from the heavy chains of burden and responsibilities we wear everyday. My point is, reality and logic is overrated and it only boils the fury in our hearts. Dreams on the other hand- dreams are beautiful. I am utterly grateful to God that He granted us this magnificent gift to dream because what is the point in living in a black and white world if you're not allowed to splash some colours in? In the simplest of words, dreams are an art you create. You, and only you, control the movements of the brush. Not the other way 'round.