Were I to choose, I would always pick dreams over reality. I, of course, mean specifically the dreams you conjure yourself during tiring or prolonged days. You know those days when your body gives out from use and your mind yields to exhaustion. The dreams that manifest during nightly slumber are different. They lack structure and are beholden to the whims of that foul creature that lives inside us, the subconscious. Conversely, daydreams are the works of our inner child. They are hopeful and magnificent. I used to have so many growing up. As a kid, my greatest adversary followed me into every room. Every room had a clock somewhere on some wall or table. The ticking of the seconds going by was nothing else but a chisel chipping away at the time I had left. Youth pays no mind to the chisel or its chipping, but you will come to realize how loud it gets, the less time you have left. So now I often come back to that childhood tradition of dreaming during the day, during my waking hours. No...
She rests in her chair, tossing a tepid gaze into the window beside her. This happens often on nights like these when the clouds come to reign over the somber sky. The pavement outside rests solemnly, void of any traffic. All the cars are asleep. No one is uttering names anymore and so the silence only grows, masticating every stray thought crossing the avenues of the mind. The darkness outside painted over the windows, the light inside can’t help but bounce against the glass. Suddenly, the window is a window no longer. It becomes a mirror. I don’t glance often, but whenever I do, I make sure to focus on her reflection instead. Somehow, it’s easier that way. Her hair has been burnt by the years. She finds time once a month to have those spent wicks of hers slathered in dye. I can’t figure out why she’s ashamed of her gray hair. It is the marker of a full life, of hour hands reunifying at the midnight of life. Those eyes stay fixed on the outside, past the window. Perhaps, she’s studyin...