Don’t go.

#3: Provide your stream of consciousness during the the worst nightmare you’ve ever had.


What are you doing here in my room? Wait, hang on, are you sick? Oh no, you’re sick. You’re going to die tomorrow, aren’t you? I don’t know how I know, but I know you’re going to die tomorrow. Mum and dad knows too, don’t they? Yes, they do. This time around we know.

You don’t look sick, what are you sick of? But I’m glad we know you’re going to die tomorrow, we can spend the entire day today together. Our very last day, at least we know you’re going to die tomorrow. Here, sit on the bed with me, I know you’re in pain, but at least we can spend this time before tomorrow comes by.

Will I awake soon? No, please, I don’t want to wake up. Somehow I know that if I wake up, you won’t be here with me anymore. I know you won’t be here. Please don’t go. Look, I’m hugging you. I’ve never hugged you before, never once have I ever wanted to hug you. Never once have I ever told you I loved you before. Please, I’m telling you now, I’m hugging you now. So don’t go.

Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t go don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up don’t wake up

Please let me stay in this dream for longer.

Please.

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Warmth.

I wonder why everyone’s obsessed with it, I mean, why isn’t the cold deemed as precious as heat?

The Sahara Desert can kill you, you know.

Psychologically, I’ve read that liking warmth is natural for human beings because you need it to survive, rather than being oblivious of the freezing temperatures. So I guess feeling warm after doing something good is your body’s reward system; it urges you to do more good.

But man, being scientific kinda kills the romance of it. And this is a really academically-minded person talking.

In a way, you do need warmth to survive. You need the warmth of the people around you, whether for a benevolent or malevolent intention. You can’t close up and subject yourself to the cold wind all the time. It doesn’t work like that.

Otherwise, you’d be dropping dead of hypothermia.

To know and to believe are two very different things.

I know that there’s something out there for me, but I don’t believe that. At least, not in a religious faith.

I know that this will end in me scrunching up paper and throwing it against the sturdy wood in a fit of rage. The stencilled words deceive and torment me, as the white shavings of wood are abused and frowned upon by myself. The letters form illegible slanders, words only to humiliate and deprecate. The A takes on a clown’s frown, with the O as its big, black honking noe. The rest of the lines and curves serve as the clown’s home and toys, the B serves as the circus tent, the P as its juggling recital, and the S as the crowd.

The onlooking children peer at me from the small and wobbly hilltop of white balls, and they leer with overflowing curiosity. They ask their mothers if I will be an act in the show, but the women reply no, it is merely a statue of failure. They would ask what failure was if the two-legged lion hadn’t roared, missing its rear from the half-written q.
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