M.v.p.

I was terrified of how real every thing was I was frightened by how much I could remember I was nervous when I realized it was a dream This was my first time in a dream where I new I was dreaming I was trying my hardest to focus on anything I could All I wanted was to stay and listen to this boy in my dreams White cotton bed sheets and quilt under my fingertips with my nails pained black. Tight sporty runners on my feet aimlessly drawing shaped on the medium dark beige tiles.

A long truck drive in the Europe parries drove me here with my dad. Texting on light mood ignoring group chat messages that drain to much of my energy. I step out the car and look at the old grey summer house only to be greeted with the boy I’d spend the next few weeks with but mostly his parents. I don’t remember much about the nice old woman with brown hair in a lose ponytail over her right shoulder i remember even less about the man with grey and blackish brown hair withering buzz cut who’s supposedly a good long time friend of my dad. I remember the most about the boy. How after he was told by his mother to where I would be staying he loosely grabbed my wrist and led me up the stairs. 12 steps up, a platform we turn left and continue up the stairs he guideds me through the narrow halls too the nearly empty room which reminds me of uncanny minimalism. I am yet again reminded that this is a summer home from the dust on the black metal railings of the bed and the night stand that my attention was only brought to because of the boy grabbing three books off hit that he left the night before. He explains to me that this bed was bigger that the one arranged him and he was just grabbing his books. Thick books with bland covers adorn in his hand. Thoughtlessly I read the cover aloud, forgetting he can hear me, hoping the tittle would be more interesting the yellowish grey that coats the book. “Uh… yes” he explains hesitantly as he begins to defend and drone on about his choice of literature. My attention is thus lost and redirected at the slim rectangle window that lets golden light through the limestone walls. The boy coincidentally steps into the place my attention is most and is obliviously drowned in a shower of late afternoon sunlight. My attention is stolen from the window to his every defined hair. His dark curls seem amber in certain thinner areas. I take note of how beautiful that it is that a few strains of unruly hair color changes completely into something equally if not more beautiful than the origin. As I think to myself without truly clocking in to how my thoughts have realize that this is only a dream. I stare at this boy wonder now taking in more than just the gold in his hair but how the sun makes an entire gold silhouette. A small freckle on his face is in stark contrast with his pale skin that’s turned rosy, mostly in the ears and cheek, for reasons unbeknownst to me. Cognitively clocking in, but this world is only but a fiction and filled with a sense of dread and longing. The need to take In as much as possible consumes my sole and I start to note things: my black branded short with white stripes on the side of legs and not quite freshly shaved legs and my shoes, The color of my nails and how I can’t remember if they are painted in real life, my white shirt with love written four times town in pastel rainbow, that one of the books the boy is holding is a journal or maybe a diary or a sketchbook. I remember how I already missed my boy and how I wished I could know this mystery more. But my wishes were not fully sent as I was not allowed to stay in that world forever. My world starts to spin slowly my vision blurs as I hear the blare of my alarm clock my eyes open to a sight I wasn’t expecting the dusty night stand with his books on it and a warm dip in the bed behind me. It’s only to my dread that I start to rember my real life and how my alarm doesn’t blare it chimes.

Hearing of the chimes mixed with the blare both sounding equally as real I open my eye wider and see my bed and feel it flat and cold. A lumb in my throat and my eyes starting to burn was the only correct way to react to leaving a world behind.

Any form of media wasn’t enough I felt empty there has always been a hole left in me from feeling what it’s like to live in a world in your own head