My World

As I close my eyes I feel as if I’m being lifted. Yes, higher and higher until I decide to open my eyes. I see a vast world before me, one new to my eyes. A voice booms out: “This is yours now, craft it well.”

Mine. My world. My world to create. My world to live.

I hover above this clean slate of a new world and look, the white space stretching as far as the eye can see. The new earth went on forever to meet the horizon, a clear boundless nothingness.

As I look, colours begin to trickle in. Faint hues of blue, pink, purple run down the sky, staining it lightly like watercolour. Bold streaks of colour come alive, winding and twisting freely across the plains, dancing like wild streamers caught in the wind. They paint the stars of the old galaxy into my new world.

My mind was simply making itself at home.

I have created many worlds before. I can see them now, planets orbiting before my eyes as I search to release all my wonders, all of my fantasies, all my memories mingled with imagination, into this physical place. Some worlds collide, others simply pass through. I watch it all clutter up my new world and knew that I had to consolidate all my little planets into one, to decide what to keep and what to leave behind.

One by one, I call upon all the characters I have kept in mind and let them pass me by; men and women I loved, people I created and made my own, whom I lavished great thought on.

Some appear more real than others because I think of them frequently. I can hardly tell if they are figments of my imagination or memories from reality but that doesn’t bother me. As long as I can use them for my pleasure, their roots were of little consequence.

And yet, there too lay the danger.

When they become more real, when I give them more personality, more power, they wrestle with me for authority. I yearn to keep them, and I know I will for I love them too deeply to throw them away, but I must check myself and not give them more than I ought.

Some people surface, real people from the old world. I emotionlessly watch them pass by. I cannot remember their stories anymore so they mean little to me. Sometimes, when I reach out to keep one or two, I get stung and then, although I cannot remember who they are, I know that they had hurt me. So I let them leave my world.

The people are chosen, such beautiful people, because the mind will not tolerate anything less and will beautify everything until it all meets the unwritten standard of perfection.

I conjure up the most splendid castle made of glass, topped with regal spikes and diamonds which shine beautifully under the light from the stars. The palace shimmers with the sheen of bubbles, magical purple and green and everything in between. This is the Glass Palace.

Inside it is a large ballroom, marbled and polished and ornately embellished. Golden clouds spiral up the thick pillars to meet in the middle of the ceiling, a dome-shaped arch. The intricate center piece, a chandelier dripping with pearls and tendrils of silver, lends its splendour to the ballroom.

This is the Dream Hall. This is where all my people gather day and night to dance, to always have an occasion to look beautiful, to escape. This is where people go to when they dream, where I go to when I dream. To be able to reach people I’m too far away to reach in real life. To find solace with strangers who I know mean me no harm. To come away and to dream.

It is complete. My world. Oh, how easily lost I am in my world.

Somewhere above, the circle of light is watching me. “Is it finished?” The voice asks.

I consider everything I’ve placed in my world. “Yes.”

“Are you ready?”

“…Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”

I am lifted up into the light until it is too bright. It swallows me whole and then…and then I see a duller, new light. I feel the heaviness of the air around me. I smell disinfectant. I hear beeps.

“Oh…oh, doctor! Oh, she’s up! Get the doctor! Quickly!”

A large face fills up my view. Behind it, a second face, and then a third edges in from the corner of my eye.

“How do you feel, love? How… Can you, can you remember me?” The first one says, grasping my hand which is numb and is only slowly waking up.

I search the people in my Palace, through the many faces I had so carefully allowed to stay with me. I find her and say her name correctly. She smiles, relief washing over her anxiety.

“Can you remember me? Can you remember me?” I hear the question repeated over and over the next few days as those from the old world try to find out if I had kept them with me or not.

Over the doctor’s explanations of amnesia, I affirm some and deny others, sorting through the people in my life, then sorting through who’s real and who’s not.

It’s tiring, but at least, every night, I get to go to my world, where I know and love everyone and everyone I care about loves me back.

Oh, how easily lost I am in my world.


I don’t know what I’m doinggg. I don’t know what I’m writing anymore so don’t ask.

I’m just tired of being sick and not being able to be sick properly. I’ve been sick for the past week and I couldn’t exactly rest in one stretch either because of work. I’ve taken sick leave off tomorrow and I was told off for that because it’s a public holiday and all hands needed to be on deck.

I’M SORRY I HAPPEN TO FALL SICK ON A PUBLIC HOLIDAY OK. BAD PLANNING ON MY PART.

I really feel bad about taking sick leave because it means that someone else has to cover for me and I don’t like the feeling of being a burden to somebody else. So yeah, I’ve been down in the dumps about this, guilt-tripping myself on top of the flu blues of staying home all day.

This short story was from a writing prompt (credits to http://www.writersdigest.com/prompts/creation-simulator). It’s the first writing prompt I ever used but the ideas of the Dream Hall and the narrator picking and choosing people as a process of amnesia were really old brainwaves I’ve kept with me. They’re something like 2 years old and I’m only using them now.

Sometimes, I wish I could have selective amnesia like that. I wish I could start over. I’d write myself a journal of the people I want to keep with me as an anchor so that when I come back, the old me will kind of guide me through.

The things I think about.

I actually feel better after writing this. I liked it more towards the end. Was still feeling crappy at the start, such that I needed a prompt to push me.

Ok, imma going to sleep now (again. When you’re sick, there’s really not much to do).

See you in the Dream Hall.

Save me a dance.

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