I had a dream last night.
I dreamed I was walking beside a long, tall wall when I heard a voice behind the wall.
I did not bother to check it at first, afraid of what is behind it, or what I might hear. So I moved on, yet the voice followed me as I walked; so I stopped for a moment and knocked on the wall.
I heard it again, such a sweet voice, I heard.
It spoke to me and awakened dormant senses I’ve never thought would ever come alive again, we stayed in that spot; talking, laughing for a really long time, and though I could not see his face I could tell it is made of art I would come to love.
Then we walked together, side by side, and though the wall was between us I felt comforted but somehow something inside me started to want more than the long walks and talks; one night, in my dream, I tiptoed on a pedestal to sneak a peak of the mysterious’ man’s world.
To my surprise it was practically colourless; it was not empty, it was actually full of wonderful things, but it was grey. Almost chaotic. So I stepped down and looked for the door, pulling a wagon of paint tins and a basket of colourful thread and a huge needle but as I stopped by the door, and knocked. The same voice answered and I grew frightened.
I remembered how broken and torn I was once and the thought of finally seeing the owner of the voice frightened me; the thought of painting his world with colours he has probably not seen and sewing the broken pieces of his heart together suddenly terrified me for I have no idea if I could live up to my plans, and I am clueless if he would even allow me.
I love myself enough to know that doing such things might and would only hurt me in the end like so many times before. So I tried to bid him goodbye and leave but though he would not open the doors, he would not allow me to leave; my feet would not allow me, either. So I stayed, and though he would not open I kept knocking, knowing somehow it was just a dream that I would soon wake up to, knowing for sure that the agony would be over soon.
But it was not a dream after all; I was indeed knocking on imaginary doors with my pails of paint, my basket of thread and needle, hoping that the doors would open, and the man behind would allow me inside to colour his grey world and saw back the broken pieces of what was once his heart.
I thought it was a dream, but it was a painful, dream-like reality after all and I wish, like in the dream that I was just walking beside a long, tall wall, not hearing anything but sad music and knowing that soon, I would wake up and finally end the agony.
But do I really want to end it? Am I ready to end the dream I have found in the midst of reality?