Genesis (creating Reality Through Dreams)

• Yu (judy) Hung, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2011

Day 1
The floral curtains dappled light from the sun and formed little people who would dance in the onset of a slight breeze – as if the little burst of air was their rhythmic calling, containing impermeable notes and ostentatious octaves. Hence, therefore, the day began reasonably. Her smile was crooked as it always was in the morning; in delirium from vivid dreams, broken wings and whimsical harlequins. Of paradise and unicorns, pool tables and deliquescing toys in a merry-go-round of blended injustices – unjust in that they could not possibly be real, yet they exist. In her mind. Which causes even the most disciplined of children turmoil and self-pity.




Day 2
It is a life sentence.
Surely you do not understand the melancholy of helplessness while your nerves sizzle in spasms running immeasurable times a heartbeat. I see them, yet I do not. I concur, yet these concoctions are not concurrent. I sympathise, but there is nothing there to pity. Only me, in this reality, praying for some light…rain so I can finally sleep soundly.




Day 3
She needs to clear her head. The walls are suffocating and the people convulsion- inducing. The auriferous mine of mine metaphorically mimics the affliction of coveting that hard yellow stuff and everyone knows that wanting anything causes indirect suffering, more so because it can never be possessed. I want my world to be this one. I am out of place. I do not understand what is wrong with this picture. If you wouldn’t mind, take another one and paste my fantasies somewhere in the background.




Day 4
‘Existence would be intolerable if we were never to dream’- Anatole France.
In fact. Dreaming makes existence unbearable, because a dream is what it will always be: something that can never come true.

Does it mean you do not exist?





Day 5
She’s attached the strings and the things begin to move. The sun no longer needs curtain dapples and the breeze no longer needs to breathe. The shadows move of their own accord and she is content all the same. The girl has made something rebel and writhe out of her imagination. The fiction of dreaming is starting to come alive – without the dark cacophony of a triumphant manic and a bolt scarring through its greenish head. She needs not fall asleep to meet and greet these acquaintances; all she needs is-




Day 5
I guess it never happened.
Blame my astigmatism.



~



And he shuts the pages. The book now closed lies supine; the face outshined by its aureole of salvation ripples the cover with light, making the title unreadable.
‘It was about a girl,’ he says, gently fingering the spine – the hollow curve of ending where a pelvis would have been had the book been human – ‘and how she longs for her fantasies to come to life.’

He looks in your eyes, obsidian reciprocated in an enlightened moment and murmurs to your echoing aural cavities:
‘It’s a story about me
… and you.’