In my bed I once awoke to find a lion sitting at the foot of it. My first instinct wasn’t to scream as perhaps someone, a less imaginative-someone, might have done. It’s golden mane was unlike any one I saw ever in my dreams. I didn’t want it to disappear so I forfeited sleep and comfort. I crawled slowly towards the beast. The bed seemed longer than I remembered it to be. Through tunnels and mountains my body tumbled. Even through an avalanche of pillows did I not take my eyes off the brilliant beast. It’s pearlescent teeth reminded me of a pirate treasure I buried beneath the ocean when still an adolescent. The closer we came together the more familiar our friendship seemed to be. I couldn’t remember the last time we met but that didn’t seem to be important. I knew that approaching it was not against the laws of nature. So I came as close to it as possible but still did not touch it, for there was still the fear of it being an illusion. I could smell oatmeal in it’s mane, the kind my father served me every morning before school. We talked for several minutes about Kindness before it reminded me that no one deserves solitude. I saw it’s paw shiver and that’s when I noticed the sun was beginning to leak through the blinds. I asked it not to go. It promised to come back. I hope so.
“It’s a small move I’ve made to move past the first page”
In the beginning there was a collection of notebooks in my possession. Each had a single page filled out with multiple adventures. Monsters ran through sentences before jumping the hurdle into a story about a Florida romance. On the bottom was always the prophet’s signature, a coffee stain I left behind before watching my favorite television program.
For years they stood like props around my bedroom. Invited guests sat among the books and talked about things I didn’t understand. Ambition, College, Fame, Creativity, were all words similar to the ones written on the first pages. There was a difference between the spoken and the printed though.
In conversation people talked about their achievements. There was a gallery down the street in which one of them had just ran an art exhibition. On the bottom of each piece was a familiar signature. It was the same one I saw on a story printed in a literary journal. My friends were achieving something while I sat in an altar.
I learned that the world runs by the success of having done something. So I began this blog because I wanted some proof of this law. My stories have been about travels, small ambitions like college, and at best some fiction. It’s a collection I’m proud of even though I do miss the smell of ink on paper. So every now and then I return the cove beneath my bed.
We hadn’t spoken very much, recently. I kept missing your calls, although the time I picked up there was no one at the other end. It was like you vanished completely that not even your dog knew where you were. I had to feed him amounts of food that depleted my life’s savings. He’ll never be the same.
I wandered about your flat for several days. Every room had a photograph of us in it, the likes of which sent me miles back into memory. The first moment I remembered, which is to say the one that still plagues the heart, is of our last kiss. I held your bottom lip between a smile before saying, “I love you”. That’s where it ended.
I slept in your bed, turning with every nightmare of your absence. We would never have time together under the mistletoe. Every winter we’d walk into town and buy the most colorful ornament for our Christmas tree. It was a tradition that was carried from our childhoods’, although we made them instead. Your’s always had the most curious of shapes. Like a cloud it transformed from small to big to being a rectangle to being a horse. Mine were that much boring compared to yours.
I don’t know where you’ve gone to but I hope you’ll come back soon. In the meantime I’ve taken the liberty of keeping Lord Byron. He’ll never survive on his own.