Of Randomness On Paper

Today, I don’t want to wake up.

I don’t want to wake up from this wonderful dream I’m trapped inside. Or is this real?

The paper below my hand feels coarse. It brushes against my fingers slowly, as if trying to remember every crack and every line on my skin. It is trying to pull me further into its lure.

There’s a pen next to the sheet of the pale, yellow paper. The pen is old with splotches of dried ink and numerous fingerprints on its dull, white exterior.

Somewhere behind me, a clock is ticking to some erratic rhythm. It is just so slow. Every other second seems longer than its predecessor. And with each passing second, the sheet of paper in front of me is slowly starting to fade away. The corners are curling on their own accord and the sides are starting to tear away slowly.

Someone is coaxing me to write.

Someone is asking me to pick the pen and write something. Anything.

Someone is asking me to paint a picture with the words.

Someone is asking me to write.

Don’t they understand that I can’t remember anything?

What am I supposed to write about?

Anything, they cry in chorus.

I know I want to write – about the sun that is nowhere in sight; about the little lamp beside me that flickers to life; about the darkness that envelops me; about the dream that holds me within it.

I know I want to write something – about you; about me; about them, calling out to me. I know I want to write about too many things, but I don’t know where to begin.

Please, they beg me, write something.

The page in front of me is merging into the darker paint of the chestnut table next to me.

Write about us, they tell me.

Who are you? I ask.

But they don’t answer me.

So, I write – I don’t want to wake up.

And here I am, trapped in my dream. Or is this real?

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