Daydreamer
Maybe I’ve always longed to write pages on the world I have so carefully crafted.
The grass is always greener when I close my eyes.
They used to praise me.
For the bright colors and perfectly intricate shapes and blobs.
It was clever regardless, the way I turned boxes into homes and tissues into skirts for dolls.
Creative.
Though they could never read my handwriting.
But said it didn’t matter. I can always read it out loud.
I always thought that my tales of new worlds were prettier when scribbled.
It was just a quirk, the messiness.
Intangibility.
I got it from my Mother, she has doctor’s scribbles.
I have grown too old for those excuses. There’s no use in playing with glue and scissors anymore. But the stories still remain, colors now brighter than ever.
It’s become habit.
I only choose songs that can act as soundtracks to movies I direct.
And I get too engrossed.
Too infatuated.
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Too distracted.
I keep floating aimlessly,
In my own world.
Population of one.
My eyes have been closed for a while.
In the place with the green grass.
I don’t think I want to be here anymore.
I think I want to know what it means to actually feel the heat on my skin. Or the rain seeping through my clothes.
I can tell you stories.
Yes, I can.
But if you asked what I did yesterday, or the day before.
I might stutter.
Or trip over my words.
Or tell you that I don’t remember.
I was too busy writing a script.
Or casting actors
Or filming the perfect scene.
My imagination.
You are beautiful.
But I don’t think you are kind to me.
