violentwavesofemotion:

“Wrap yourself in the mist. Look at the moon, nobody else, only the moon.”

— Hans Christian Andersen, from Complete Stories; “What The Moon Saw,”

a-cure-for-writers-block:

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biggest-gaudiest-patronuses:

writing-prompt-s:

You become addicted to lucid dreaming, and start having trouble telling reality from dreams.

It should be easy. Flying, floating: a dream. Sitting, bored, in a classroom: reality. Clear lines.

It isn’t easy.

I forget I’m dreaming. I am in a classroom, I am in a coffee shop, I am in normal surroundings, but one by one they fall away. I am not the sort to dream of flying over wild lands. My dreams are my life, or a version of it.

But in my dreams, the rooms are quiet. And the people are not real. In my dreams when I speak, no one speaks over me. In my dreams, people listen. And when I do not want to speak, the conversation ends.

In my dreams, when I am tired, everything falls away, and I move on to the next scene.

I am in the library. You are speaking to me. I don’t want to hear the next words. This is the page where I slam the cover shut, put the story down, wait until I am calmed and prepared to continue.  

You are speaking. The scenery falls away. We are in a restaurant. That was a dream, just then? I thought that was really you, telling me things I don’t want to hear. Was that not you?

We are in a restaurant. You are repeating yourself. These words don’t make me apprehensive, but I do not comprehend them. What are the words? Are you mumbling? Or is that my ears? Wait, you’re tugging at my sleeve. I know what happens next. This is a dream, so I know what happens, because I choose it.

Why did I choose this? You are crying. You don’t do that often. You are looking into my eyes, and you are sad, and afraid. Did I make you afraid?

It’s after the restaurant. I couldn’t understand your words before, but now they are in my ears, going back and forth like the tongue of a bell. Come back. Come back. 

Back where? I am here, where are you?

Why did I start dreaming to begin with? You were in love with life, and with me. Was I in love with you? Did that scare me?

I was always waiting to sink to the bottom. I was waiting for a cue.

It’s after the restaurant. I am dreaming. I’m walking on a bridge. There is a small lake. But no, it is a river, because I have decided. And it is not small, not at all, and it is in fact very far down, I have decided this too. Or was it always a river? Was I dreaming to begin with? 

But the sun is on me as I leap off the bridge. Halfway to the bottom I decide to sprout wings, and I wait, patiently, to see what happens next.