I dunno, nothing simple enough comes to mind during a conversation with the world. Yet there are a million of things to talk about- feelings, politics, society, or climate change- just waiting to come out from the back of my head. I guess stuff like how I fear the future, yet I can’t wait for it to swallow me. I’ll let it come to me like a bullet travelling the speed of light, hit me before the blink of an eye. The anticipation would be calmingly unwavering. Or like the incoming mother’s embrace after we both sobbed our eyes out on my bed during a school night when I was 11 years old. This happened after I expressed to her the dream I wished upon myself to unburden the people who knew me.

It was the first night I learned that my own death wouldn’t be the misery of me, and it was the first time my mother shed tears in front of me. It’s not very comforting to think that everything one does in this world affects one another (even despite being strangers), doesn’t it?

Everybody is self centered, so to think of this life as a story wouldn’t fit. Who are we to call ourselves the main character, the side character or even the antagonist when we’re all three at once? And who are we to assume what other people think of us, when all they’re thinking about is how we think of them? Advices like these always sound useless from other people. Isn’t it funny how people with the most messed up lives give the best advice sometimes?

In one universe I am exactly where I wish to be, whilst in other numerous universes, the events unfold in mysterious ways. Anyway, dreams are always redeveloping to match the present situation. For example, I dream to be happy when I’m sad. And even then I dream to be happier when I’m apparently not happy enough. However, my biggest concern is, in exactly which universe am I smiling in - if nowhere despite being where I always wanted to be? Even so, why do I laugh when I cry and cry when I laugh? Life makes no sense at all.

To say the least, life is a misadventure of itself. I look to the movie Thelma and Louise for comfort. The duo twists in the necessary directions to escape oppression everywhere it finds them, to live and die with no in-betweens. When nothing went their way, they made the choice that would end any future choices being blown up anyway. Did they really lose in the end? Is life a game of win or lose, then? What if nobody won because everybody else thought they lost?

So now what? What could I talk about? Feelings, politics, society, or climate change? Where/how could I even start in a conversation with the world when nothing is simple enough to talk about?

There is an endless number of universes, more parallel universes than you’d ever imagine. As long as you think of it, it exists. Maybe it was just a short blip, a meaningless ”What if?”. That’s the kind of power the universe holds, the kind of power you hold and all those versions of you as well. Think of all the possibilities behind the decisions either you made or the world - how different things would have turned out in each one. You don’t have the responsibility over every choice your path follows because it has been written - what you have is the responsibility to make the best out of this version. There are different stories that live on in you and different people you turn out to become. There is no single destiny, and there is no such thing as soulmates. Perhaps you’re already dead in a different universe, perhaps you’re more alive in another. Perhaps you’re already the person you’d always dreamed to be in a different universe, perhaps he’s more in love with you in another. On and on, it never ends. That’s how the world can be, I guess.

The air conditioner produced the sound of the room, what used to be background noise turned into the lead character. Passionate barks from the dog outside knocked through the window of her bedroom, a level above the garage. Occasional chirps of birds sitting on the house’s planted trees peck her ears, singing cheery songs of lonesome peace. She combed the fabric of the silky curtain across her index finger and thumb and flung it swiftly to the side. Daylight strained her eyes and warmly touched the shadows of the room, reminding her that she hasn’t woken up this early in months. She stared at the line on her blank document, disappearing and reappearing like a taunt – as she ran out of ideas of words of stories to create. Sitting in silence and listening to the surrounding sounds, her mind drifted to a girl from a parallel universe saying, “See you later!” out the door. In jeans and a green vintage jacket her mom hates seeing her wear, feet tucked in her favorite red converse sneakers and hair prepped up like a woman on a mission.

-

This life flashed before her eyes. Eyeing strangers that pass by; coming in and out of her life so instantly and anonymously; in their uniquely colored coats and mysteries. Observing a face and writing internal stories; who are they with? Are they lovers or friends (perhaps unknowingly, both)? Where are they going? How about that restaurant across the indoor water fountain in the lobby; with their pretty round, clothed tables with tall and slim pots of daisies placed on the center. The windows that change the atmosphere of the room every time.

When daylight, the music plays dulcet piano and acoustic guitar – your fingers tap to the rhythm as smiley waitresses serve you cold salad with luxurious splashes of olive oil across the leafy greens. Sided with light, sweet pound cake for dessert. Exchanging glances with the cute boy sitting across the table from you, who is having lunch with his chaotic family. The toddler little sister cranks up her iPad to maximum volume; playing obnoxious, childish YouTube videos. When their food arrives, the father pulls the iPad away from her mercilessly, releasing demonic shrieks and crying. Knocking her highchair in rampage, attracting attention that either has people looking back sympathetically or rolling their eyes in annoyance. The nanny panics and attempts to comfort her with singing and cooing, until the mother orders her to carry the toddler outside and bring her back in after she has been calmed. When they come back, the whole mood is lifted, and everybody adores her – “Look there! Look there!” The mother points as she holds her baby on her lap at the iPhone the waitress held to take their family picture.

When night, the candles are lit. The oil filled ones as the fire lights the candle wick; its bursting yellow flame glows through the magenta or orange cups. Sensual violin and trumpet jazz release your stress and makes you want to live in the moment - there’s nothing else that defines closure better than this aura. They have a bar right on the side, with stools where people sit and smoke – filling the air with such dark, romantic fragrance that caresses both your shoulders and kisses both your cheeks. Adults laugh boomingly as they sit for an office meeting, and couples stare into each other’s eyes like the world revolved around them. Steak is served; and the meat is juicy and tender; along with roasted vegetables colored with enticing golden brown. A woman with red lipstick stained her glass of champagne, she elegantly strips off her black fur coat to show off her bare shoulders to the man sitting across from her. He seems ignorant, unbothered – he calls the waiter impatiently and complains about the slow food service.

-

Rain sounds like falling rocks when you have a plastic cover above your ceiling, and an abrupt gathering of thunder rudely interrupts her train of thought. She wakes up from her dream, back in her haven of a bedroom. Outside, the streets are empty – some mornings there are sounds of carts passing through, the men out there wearing masks and selling bread or fish tanks. Motorcycles revving by, delivering goods in plastic bags or cardboard boxes. This neighborhood is pastel, obeying to the rules and staying inside the confines of their finely polished fences. Such obedience stirs her patience mad; the silence opens borders of imagination; cruel fantasies and cumbersome desire. Emotion and logic were at war, snot and tears welled up her face. Sucking her face dry, cold hearted and fearsome. She grew scared of herself, scared of the world’s perception and scared of her own goals and ambitions. Such thoughts can rot and ruin the world, such thoughts could kill someone.

The room started to fill with mewl, the air conditioner was no more. She teared her pencil apart and threw the other end against the wall; the white paint was crumbling apart. It was not a clean cut; wooden shards were sticking out like a demon’s arms looking for an embrace. She scratched the shards against her skin, ripping at her creamy, pale disguise apart. Red lines scattered across her arms and her thighs – she’s not so usually suicidal or dark. Such temptations to bleed clouded over her, and everything just felt so right. God just watched; frozen on the cross upon the cupboard next to her; as her demon corrupted her own soul. I dare you to do something, I dare you to save me.

-

Forced words come out like a stream of river water. Hitting rocks as she stuttered, and her chest pounded rhythmically. Sitting on her bed beside her, this wonderful presence: Mother. She listened in silence as the poor girl’s cold, wet tears fell down her cheeks. Mother begun to speak softly, threw in some jokes here and there and stroked her daughter’s pathetic spine; her touch comforting and kind. Mother was not afraid of the demon that lived inside her daughter, she lovingly embraced every part of her. The angel through mother miraculously saved her – spared her from a lifetime of grief and regret. The dark holes were sealed, but no demon can disappear. Maybe one day it’d strike again, when Mother isn’t looking. Just you wait.