Daydreams
The warm feeling of the changing seasons and the setting sun accompanied the lightly colored petals, washed away with the spring breeze. Beside us lied the building we all hated, yet loved at the same time. A beacon of innocence, of relative peace and friendship, turned a reminder of the past, nostalgia, and perhaps, even a dream that we did not realize we were a part of.
One by one, children clad in colorful blazers, all the same, and all decorated with flowers, sometimes ink from thoughtful colleagues, and of course, the precious marks left by tears, walked away from the building. Awaking from the dream they never realized they were in, and waking up, tears and all, to whatever lies beyond.
I remembered that spring, three years ago, when I first sat under the cherry blossoms and held my hand up and felt a delicate petal fall into place, right in my palm. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” you said. I looked for the source of that simple phrase which resonated with my thoughts — and began my dream — our dream.
In truth, what we had — I was not sure what it was. Ever since our eyes met, it was as if mine are positive and yours negative, in the sense that they attracted each other — like magnets. Every time I greeted you, I felt my chest tighten, and, a budding flower as I was, I wasn’t quite that empty a canvas, and so, I sought to continue painting it with you. My only surprise, was that you felt the same.
Two painters, two brushes, different sets of colors, and tones and styles, yet one canvas, one work, and one story to tell. It could have gone so easily wrong — yet it didn’t. As I toned down your world and calmed your restless spirit, you colored mine and showed me the world. An equivalent exchange? Perhaps. I never did truly understand the economics or physics of it. All that mattered was, this picture, this story, this… canvas in our dream. It was beautiful.
I could only imagine, some of the people around us feeling the same way, as those troubled faces with more wet marks on their clothes than the other stood by. Perhaps waiting. Perhaps still clinging to that colorful dream. As we always do when we have great dreams — we look to treasure it, before it is gone, and perhaps even closing our eyes again, to perhaps come back, if only for a while, if only for one last glance. I can’t blame them. Perhaps I’m doing the same thing. I don’t know. That’s how dreams work right? You enjoy them, you cherish them, but over time, you learn to forget them.
How could I though? When I glance upwards, a bit to the side, and through the falling cherry blossoms, I could only see the very definition of my dream — the person that has made it unimaginable for me to think of that dream as ever being a nightmare — so long as he was there with me.
I wonder if you feel the same. I don’t often wonder how you feel. You would often show me immediately. With such bashfulness and confidence, you were like the sun to my moon, beaming all of your energy, thoughts and feelings, and I would reflect them, cherish them and share them to people and things beyond your grasp. I suppose we made a decent team that way. Just like the sun, I could not look at you directly at that moment, lest there will be more wet stains on the already crooked bow on my chest.
Perhaps, after all that time, you were trying to reverse our roles? Perhaps that time, you wanted to absorb my feelings and reflect it? I would’ve stop you, as it didn’t suit you, but at that moment, I could not. I was simply not strong enough.
My gaze dropped to your stiff, yet comforting shoulder. I could feel a faint smile as I remembered all the times I stained it with my sweat, blood and tears. I remembered the feeling of your kind hand, which would brush over my hair as I leaned, perhaps in an effort to wipe my troubles away, or perhaps only to take the opportunity to have your own comfort in me? I could never tell. I contemplated on laying my head on it once more, but I decided against it. Instead, I sought another comfort.
Odd. This warm, timid yet safe feeling in my hand holding yours…. it hasn’t changed since the day we met. At the very least, could you let me enjoy it for a little while longer? Of course you would? Right? Just a bit longer.
As the crimson sun set into the distance, the flowers falling now turn into more of a symbol of melancholy rather than romance — and end rather than a beginning. This, I knew. This, was clear. However, for one second, just for one moment, I wanted to choose to be ignorant of it.
Under those cherry blossoms — I wanted to continue my dream, the one we had together long ago. The one, so colorful it made the outside world monochrome in comparison. I wanted to feel that one more time. “Can I?” I whispered under the rhapsody of nature, wrapping myself on your arm and closing my eyes.
No answer. Not verbally at least. Instead, I had assumed that I would receive that warm pat on the head, or caressing of my hair, but instead, I got more. An embrace, the warmest I’ve ever felt, followed by a streak of passion expressed through the touching of our lips. It WAS strange. This was the perfect crescendo of our dream — yet why did the river not stop flowing? Why did it feel like, instead of waking up, if we stopped, then we would have slept forever?
Questions, irrelevant. The passion, an instant. The ending, done. And so, as if fulfilling the prescribed epilogue, through my tears, flushed cheeks and beating heart, I closed my eyes, and waited there, beside you.
Again, I recall that day, where we looked at each other, and the red thread of fate was sealed, and as I sit there, under the cherry blossoms, I felt time standing still. Yet now, it is as if time fell along with those delicate petals. Floating away as I felt our dream slowly ending, and finally, I open my eyes. In front of me were children — Innocent and clad in spotless, colorful blazers, a stark contrast to my monochromatic formal wear, stained by blood, sweat, tears, and perhaps a dab of other things. My dream — our dream, might have ended long ago, but theirs had just begun.
