A Dead Dream

Have you ever been in love? I have never been in love. I’ve been into relationships but never felt the need to spend my whole life with someone. I’ve had my share of break-ups and tears but I never had my heart broken. Today, I woke up alone, as always. As I was sitting quietly with my breakfast in front of me, I mourned over a lost love. I mourned about a man I have never met in this life. Memories of events that never happened surged into my mind and it felt real.

In those memories, I was in love. I was in love with a man who is also very much in love with me. We spent a very short time together and we had to part. I pictured him standing in front of me. We’re about to part ways and would never see each other again. We said goodbye and I cried. It was hopeless. I thought, “What kind of barrier could ever stand in the way of love?” If one of us is leaving, the other one can go with him/her. It makes no sense to lose a love over something so small. But in those memories, there was nothing I can do. Like a movie, there was nothing I can do, I can just sit through it and watch. It was just that. I watched the love I finally found, my first love, go away. The thought that I would never see him again killed me.

What is it with this man and how did he capture my wild heart? He was not a skilled hunter. He was the man who connected to my other side or what I call “my soft side”, the real me. He tamed my soul and took my heart. I’m two people at once but most could only see one. Just like twins in a very complicated birth where the other one has to die in order for the other one to live. Naturally, the strongest one, the one more capable of surviving this world was chosen. The dead twin refuses to be forgotten. Time and time again, her presence is felt. When I decided to kill her, she understood. She did not judge me. She did not get mad. She simply understood. As I write this, I cry as if I just had an abortion. A few moments ago, I was mourning about a lost significant other and now, it seems I am mourning about a lost twin and a lost child. None of the people I cry about even exists.

You see, I’m a dreamer. I fit into the common description of a writer, an artist, and an old soul. When I was a kid, I liked to draw. I wrote poems and turned plenty of my notebooks into comic books. I liked to sing, too, and I also used to dance. When I was young, aside from having several ambitions such as being an astronaut and going to space, being a pilot and cruising through the skies, and being an architect and designing and building beautiful cities, my greatest dream was to have a sketchbook. I used to call it “a notebook with no lines on it”. All I wanted was a notebook with no lines on it! Now I can buy as many sketchbooks as I want but I never did.

I’m afraid. Even when I hoarded notebooks, I always hesitated to write on them. I’m afraid to make a mistake, to ruin something so clean and perfect. I’m also afraid that the notebooks hated me. High school was the end of my creativity. High school was the time I burned all the comic books I made. It was the time my peers have accepted my talent and my family did not. I used to have my classmates borrow the comic “notebooks” I made and read my stories. I used to have people ask me, “What’s gonna happen next?” Now, I don’t even remember what the stories I wrote a decade (or more) ago were about. I burned it all. I thought to myself, “I could write it all over again. I will draw again.” Then I asked myself, “What’s gonna happen next?”

Years later, it never happened. The surviving twin successfully earns a great amount of money in her career. She killed everyone with her technical skills. She was able to afford renting a new place for herself. She severed ties with an abusive family. She lived alone peacefully. Sometimes I think what it was all for and I always get the answer, “So that we can do whatever we want, what we always wanted to do.” Then I ask myself again, “What do we always wanted to do?” And my mind goes back to the dreams I had decades ago. My first love. I want to make comic books again. I want to write stories again. Like a haunting memory, the dead twin wants to come back to life. Maybe she has never died at all, she just stood in the background as the stronger and more practical twin takes on the world to build a cradle just for the two of them. A safe haven where none of them could be harmed. A world where both of them can live and survive.

Maybe I was mourning not over a man, a sibling, or a child. But I was weeping about a lost love, indeed. And whenever I feel a barrier, maybe I should picture myself parting ways with a lost love and thinking “What kind of barrier could ever stand in the way of love?”

A Dead Dream