So, there's this dream. Options

[*CrackedRearView*]

So, there’s this dream.

I can't stand the main wing of my high school. The hallway is much too long, and much too bland. The tiling is very intricate, yet very austere. It's as if the contractors intentionally meant to lessen the morale of the students that would once roam the interior. The walls beg for color, and no one in the course of 86 years was courteous enough to grant such a simple request. For four years I faced the dismay of gazing at those neutral walls, listening to their black and white angst screaming at me for liberation; for four years those walls encircled my ambitions – my schoolboy drive. Now, they only haunt me in my dreams – just as she does.

Yes, ‘she’ – the one, my only, that dame. No amount of my pen on this paper does justice to that word, she. As much as people tout my ability to express myself in this medium, I just can’t. She stares at me, she surveys me – she gives me attention that I’m unaccustomed to. It’s been days – hours upon hours upon every damn second. Yeah, hell’s no mystery, I know what hell is. It’s the furthest thing from enigmatic.

I’m reading the Kansas City Star right now through bleary eyes – those tears; they’ll do a number on the eyes. ‘A SCIENTIFIC APPROACH TO MALE/FEMALE ATTRACTION.’ Great, this is just what I need: one more reason to cry – one more reason to remember her. It all compounds, everything I do seems more meaningless now, and why not? I’m an idiot. I wonder if she thinks about me – I wonder if she dreams on her pillow.
My pillow must be fed up with the repetitive material – watching the same show on television day after day is mundane; I’m sure bearing witness to the same dream night after night is the same. Of course, before summer wrapped up I had much to entertain my pillow with.

Visions of my childhood – staring out onto 12th Street from behind the bars that protected the windows of our rundown, decaying home, listening to a drug slinging conversation from behind the comforts of a tired, locked door, having that door broken down and fleeing to the comforts of the bed’s underbelly, being dragged out by my hair and beaten. That’s when I wake up.
Visions of Brandon – laughing incessantly at the video tape of my crash and burn on the mini bike, gradually turning into the ladies man overnight, reading the paper I found under his books while I hopelessly searched through his abandoned room to myself over and over and beaming at how absolutely sweet he was:

“My brother Justin plays a very special role in my life. He is older, so I have always looked up to him. Everything (mainly sports) he has ever done I have tried to do as well. Even if it was pointless, my brother has always been there for me. An example, he took my best friend and me to a Green Day concert. Another reason he is special is that he has always been like a second coach to me in all my sports; he is the one who goes to play with me when everyone is ‘sick of throwing the damn baseball’. He never complains. That is why Justin is the special person in my life.”
- Brandon Abbott, May 15th, 2005.

You were the special person in my life, too, buddy. I don’t know if you’ll ever know that. You make me cry tears of utter joy – I think about how many people you’re striking out up in the clouds. How you laugh at their frustration and gleam in triumph’s phosphorescence.
So, there’s this dream. I’m walking down the dreaded main wing, obeying the pissed off walls and handling the chip on my shoulder when I hear a creaky door struggle to open behind the tiny arms of something ahead. And then he comes staggering clumsily into view on the unsure skills of infantile legs. And this young child dons a boyish grin and shouts “daddy!” He extends his arms and begins a clumsy run of just four steps. I hear another “daddy!” And then I wake up.

Sweat. Confusion.

Just once did it extend – just last night. Same plot, same result, new ending. As the boy, my son lies on the floor with extended arms, the door again opens with a confident air. And she strides to him with maternal beauty, lifts him up and smiles at me. And the tiles radiate in full, blinding, penetrating color. Those dank walls shine flush in her light that they’ve gone so many decades without. She colored the walls. I must have her. Please come back.

Sweat. Confusion. Tears.

[demolished]

It’s very descriptive, colorful and creative.
Somehow, it’s a bit emotional and pity.

My imagination was like … wow.

[*Azarel*]

How many times have I read this already..? It makes me cry each time - it's so utterly heartbreaking, so real. You have me; I'll never leave again.

I love you.

[rainnydaiis]

Wow this was one awesome piece of work. just the description of many things are awesome. Hope to see more of your work.

[*not_your_average*]

Just like Anna, I cried when I read this. It's extremely beautiful and touching. Please post in here more often. We need more writers like you!