An elementary school teacher told my class once, that the best
way to overcome a fear of even something silly like the dark, is to
think of all the things you’re grateful for; “it doesn’t even matter
what it is,” she said. “You could even be grateful for your nose or
your pencil; just anything you see, remember how grateful you are for
it. And that will make you feel better.”
And so, I think amongst the melancholy, I am alive. I look around my own small body, sitting on the couch of my living room, situated four hours away from my hometown. I take comfort in my cat, I take comfort in my newfound friends, I take comfort in the elaborate sunset of the city, and I think to myself… yes; I am alive. I have made it; or, as close to “it” as my life allows right now. Some days are harder than others – some days are awful, actually – but what matters is, here I am, someone “normal” who has now experienced a normal, human life.
Sometimes I have this dream; I’m wandering through an extraordinarily large hotel – everything about the hotel is immense; its gold-gilded walls and chandeliers are reminiscent of the finest rooms in Versailles. The elevator is a wide room-sized chamber, its buttons a sterling, shiny platinum. The hotel room that is always in dream is the size of a large apartment, furnished with embellished, expensive furniture, complete with a hottub and a bar, anything anyone could ever want, really. There is a bar in the lobby. I enter it, expecting to meet someone there. I order a strawberry cocktail and sit, watching small throngs of people step through the too-large hotel. But eventually, the people dissipate, their voices lost and distant. And I’m holding my cocktail in my hand and I look around and realize, I’m alone. I’m the only person in this entire hotel. Then, I wake up.
And so, I think amongst the melancholy, I am alive. I look around my own small body, sitting on the couch of my living room, situated four hours away from my hometown. I take comfort in my cat, I take comfort in my newfound friends, I take comfort in the elaborate sunset of the city, and I think to myself… yes; I am alive. I have made it; or, as close to “it” as my life allows right now. Some days are harder than others – some days are awful, actually – but what matters is, here I am, someone “normal” who has now experienced a normal, human life.
Sometimes I have this dream; I’m wandering through an extraordinarily large hotel – everything about the hotel is immense; its gold-gilded walls and chandeliers are reminiscent of the finest rooms in Versailles. The elevator is a wide room-sized chamber, its buttons a sterling, shiny platinum. The hotel room that is always in dream is the size of a large apartment, furnished with embellished, expensive furniture, complete with a hottub and a bar, anything anyone could ever want, really. There is a bar in the lobby. I enter it, expecting to meet someone there. I order a strawberry cocktail and sit, watching small throngs of people step through the too-large hotel. But eventually, the people dissipate, their voices lost and distant. And I’m holding my cocktail in my hand and I look around and realize, I’m alone. I’m the only person in this entire hotel. Then, I wake up.
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