The weather makes for one of those mornings that is good for lying in bed with a book, coffee and cigarettes. Maya Roy, quite an aesthetically pleasing girl in her early thirties decided to take the day off to do just that. Her neverending chain of unatttended to files piled up on her desk as a result, but she will deal with that tomorrow, she thought. It actually made no difference whether she be there or not, the files piled up anyway. There are too many people suffering from the blues these days and too many a day of attending to their blues, makes it justifiable for her to take the day off just to sit. She was a grief counselor at the nearby hospital, but today she was an artist, philosopher, writer, just because it gave her just the escape route from just blue.
She walked down the steps to make them both coffee, him and her. She had been too occupied with herself for far too long, it is about time for her to appreciate him and his company. She allowed the black liquid to drip into the white mug, one by one while she steamed the milk. She playfully muzzled into his chest to wake him. She laughed as he hugs her with his strong hands and pulled her back into bed. She loves his grip, his laugh, his jokes. She thought how often she just brushes his dance aside as stupidity while she hardly hears the songs he sings. She will make up for her unappreciativeness she vowed, from today onwards she will enjoy his dance, and hear his songs. She kisses him and falls asleep.
It was the afternoon and she smiles as she hears his voice in the music room playing his tunes. She creeped in and sat beside the piano with her book and rocked to the music. Hardly has she found the time to indulge in him like that. Many a days she was too obsessed with the files on her desk, with the dishes in the sink, and the dirt on the floor. She resented him for the clothes on the ground and the shoes off the rack. When they are out she was quick to point out the faults of the waiter, and the off-coloured greens, the uneven table legs, and the cold chicken. The lumpy soup began to creep up her list of priority, and soon enough it appeared to be on top of him. She sighed with regret and slipped beside him on the chair. He stops and looks at her adoringly. No one could ever look at her with such loving eyes. She smiled back.
The rain continued to pour down and it began to turn cold. He hugged her to share his warmth and she sat cuddled. As much as she desired to posess him within her, his beauty, his being, he could only share that much. As much as she desired to have him forever, it will not be. The desire within her burnt for him and she sat undone by it. The chill broke through the warm shawl and she turned around from her canvas and saw what is. The empty piano stool, and no music. Silence rang loud and clear and coldness surrounded her. She was alone. She turned back to see a canvas painted black. Nothingness. The fragments of her imagination, the one she held so tight to wishing it be real had cracked, and with the last blast of cold wind came crashing down. She got up and walked into the bedroom and on the floor, on his side of the bed still sat the cups and cups of undrunk coffee. Still undrunk. He's not there.
She called out his name. Nothing. She waited a while. Still nothing. Pure nothingness. The lights had been out for days, and the wind chill for months now. She was most unattractive, a hollow skinny sillhoute still dressed in black. Tears streamed down her face and she felt what she had caused him to feel all these years, like a knife had been pushed into her side. The truth is, she's been taking the day off for a year now, and he, he is not there. He has been dead for a year now. She has just escaped out of the blue for far too long. And meanwhile, grief piles up on her desk and she, she lit a cigarette and looked into her canvas where she could sleep restfully safe in his arms.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
dance sweet ballerina
The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.
She cries, tears in her eyes, mummy I hate this take off my shoes. Tears stream down my face. But my dear Sarah I whispered, Sarah my dear, but you look so beautiful in those pretty pink shoes. And so she keeps on dancing.
The thing she knew not, was that she is pretty in my sight, indeed she was, my little ballerina in pink shoes, the thing is I know she falls, she falls but those were the most precious times. Those were the times I get to pick her up, and wipe her tears, and those were the times she says to me, mummy hold my hand until I float again. I hold her hand time and again and watch her as she dances, my little pink ballerina, precious in my sight,
My eyes only see things in that perfect world, and my little Sarah, in my eyes, fall she may, but that's not what I see. In that world where all is perfect I can see her dancing, I don't see her fall. I smile and nod the ballerina will always see herself fall, she will, she will, for she cannot see what I see. The ballerina that floats, never tire, never fall. if only she could see herself, through my eyes.
Over the years same thing over I tell her. But you look so pretty in those pretty pink shoes and today she stands waving her hands to me. Mummy I dream of that ballerina too, pretty in her ribbons and pink shoes, I know your secret I see it in your eyes, and so I try, to float not fall, for I am pretty in your sight.
And then one day she fell quite bad, her ankles sprained, and her knees buckled, she swore and swore she would never dance again and hung up her pretty pink shoes. I am by her side, but I refused to carry her. I watch and wait until she decides to walk again, but walk she refused and refused, I wait until she steps out of bed for she is too precious for me to carry her always.
And then she turned away from me and bitterly pointed her dreaded finger. it is so painful to walk why don't you carry me like you used to, she sobs. Dear sarah, dear Sarah it pains me more this way, but you have to learn to walk again, and put on your pretty pink shoes.
she sobbed and cried and said I ruined her life, she did not want to walk no more. I sighed and watched her from afar as she shut me out of her life. I saw her sit and grew some fat and her legs went very numb. My dear sweet little ballerina sways from the truth of who she was, when she refused to stand again.
I watch, I never leave her side, eventhough soemtimes she does not see. then one day her eyes opened again, and her sight she once more received. her dreams returned and her heart tingled as she got out of that bed and then she walked her way towards me and asked if she could hold my hand. I want to dance again she said with tears in her eyes. I held her close and whispered in her ear, you will I said sure and clear as I took her sweet hand.
I held her hand until she could walk again and then I put on her pink shoes for her and as clumsy as she was just then, all I could see, was her. Her beauty, her grace, just the way she was made as she tries and tries to dance. And day by day she dreamt again to be that ballerina that never falls.
She waved at me as I walk by her side, she knew I would catch her when she falls. And then one day my dear sweet ballerina, floated, so graceful and so tall. I smiled to myself and wish she could see herself so radiant in my eyes. to me my little ballerina, will always be so pretty in my sight.
The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.
Keep on dancing with me by your side.
She cries, tears in her eyes, mummy I hate this take off my shoes. Tears stream down my face. But my dear Sarah I whispered, Sarah my dear, but you look so beautiful in those pretty pink shoes. And so she keeps on dancing.
The thing she knew not, was that she is pretty in my sight, indeed she was, my little ballerina in pink shoes, the thing is I know she falls, she falls but those were the most precious times. Those were the times I get to pick her up, and wipe her tears, and those were the times she says to me, mummy hold my hand until I float again. I hold her hand time and again and watch her as she dances, my little pink ballerina, precious in my sight,
My eyes only see things in that perfect world, and my little Sarah, in my eyes, fall she may, but that's not what I see. In that world where all is perfect I can see her dancing, I don't see her fall. I smile and nod the ballerina will always see herself fall, she will, she will, for she cannot see what I see. The ballerina that floats, never tire, never fall. if only she could see herself, through my eyes.
Over the years same thing over I tell her. But you look so pretty in those pretty pink shoes and today she stands waving her hands to me. Mummy I dream of that ballerina too, pretty in her ribbons and pink shoes, I know your secret I see it in your eyes, and so I try, to float not fall, for I am pretty in your sight.
And then one day she fell quite bad, her ankles sprained, and her knees buckled, she swore and swore she would never dance again and hung up her pretty pink shoes. I am by her side, but I refused to carry her. I watch and wait until she decides to walk again, but walk she refused and refused, I wait until she steps out of bed for she is too precious for me to carry her always.
And then she turned away from me and bitterly pointed her dreaded finger. it is so painful to walk why don't you carry me like you used to, she sobs. Dear sarah, dear Sarah it pains me more this way, but you have to learn to walk again, and put on your pretty pink shoes.
she sobbed and cried and said I ruined her life, she did not want to walk no more. I sighed and watched her from afar as she shut me out of her life. I saw her sit and grew some fat and her legs went very numb. My dear sweet little ballerina sways from the truth of who she was, when she refused to stand again.
I watch, I never leave her side, eventhough soemtimes she does not see. then one day her eyes opened again, and her sight she once more received. her dreams returned and her heart tingled as she got out of that bed and then she walked her way towards me and asked if she could hold my hand. I want to dance again she said with tears in her eyes. I held her close and whispered in her ear, you will I said sure and clear as I took her sweet hand.
I held her hand until she could walk again and then I put on her pink shoes for her and as clumsy as she was just then, all I could see, was her. Her beauty, her grace, just the way she was made as she tries and tries to dance. And day by day she dreamt again to be that ballerina that never falls.
She waved at me as I walk by her side, she knew I would catch her when she falls. And then one day my dear sweet ballerina, floated, so graceful and so tall. I smiled to myself and wish she could see herself so radiant in my eyes. to me my little ballerina, will always be so pretty in my sight.
The ballerina floats in her pink shoes, the ones with ribbons all the way up to the calves. She spins and dances and she never tires, never falls.That is me, she whispered softly, me in my dream, but wide awake I slip I fall, I bruise and I am tired, wide awake I fall. But I will keep on dancing. Keep on dancing.
Keep on dancing with me by your side.
I still dream of Shanghai
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
The sun shines through the windows and the clouds cannot get through. The woman called to tell me who she was and yet when I called back she does not exist. I am confused thinking of what she said, I still dream of Shanghai she whispered. And I asked her when was the last time she was there, I've never been she said. Homesick for a home she never had, she still dreams of Shanghai. God help the girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things happen when you're awake at five a.m. The car stalls and stops in the middle of the stream and stars shine from underneath upwards. The man called to tell me who he was, and yet when I called back, he does not exist. I am confused thinking of what he said, I still deam of Shanghai, he whispered. And when I asked him why, she was there he said. Lovesick for a love he never had, he still dreams of Shanghai. God help that boy.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things you see when you're walking around at four a.m. Perfection inverted, truth be told. The moon is still, as the earth circles around the moon, and the sun circle arounds the earth. I still dream of Shanghai I said. But I have never been. Dreaming of a place I have never been, possibilities of seeing what I have never seen, maybe even feeling what I have never felt. I still dream of Shanghai. God help this girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
This time my eyes open not closed. Conciously sleepwalking I still dream of Shanghai. The city lights blink and I run, anticipating, and there he was. His face shone under the moonlight and he smiled. I walk, and run, and walk, and run and he made his way towards me. Hearts a beating, walking and running in rhythm I am a woman in love. We met on the bridge in Shanghai remember. I nod I nod and rubbed my eyes, but i have never been to Shanghai. Never been not even once in my life.
But I still dream of him in Shanghai. He and I on that bridge, kissing. A reunion. I put on my boots and go sleepwalking and when I called he answered. I still dream of Shanghai he told me, I still dream of you.
So do I. I still dream of Shanghai. I still dream of you.
But I have never been to Shanghai, I have never met him.
And yet I dream, of Shanghai.
The sun shines through the windows and the clouds cannot get through. The woman called to tell me who she was and yet when I called back she does not exist. I am confused thinking of what she said, I still dream of Shanghai she whispered. And I asked her when was the last time she was there, I've never been she said. Homesick for a home she never had, she still dreams of Shanghai. God help the girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things happen when you're awake at five a.m. The car stalls and stops in the middle of the stream and stars shine from underneath upwards. The man called to tell me who he was, and yet when I called back, he does not exist. I am confused thinking of what he said, I still deam of Shanghai, he whispered. And when I asked him why, she was there he said. Lovesick for a love he never had, he still dreams of Shanghai. God help that boy.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
Funny things you see when you're walking around at four a.m. Perfection inverted, truth be told. The moon is still, as the earth circles around the moon, and the sun circle arounds the earth. I still dream of Shanghai I said. But I have never been. Dreaming of a place I have never been, possibilities of seeing what I have never seen, maybe even feeling what I have never felt. I still dream of Shanghai. God help this girl.
I put on my boots and go sleepwalking.
This time my eyes open not closed. Conciously sleepwalking I still dream of Shanghai. The city lights blink and I run, anticipating, and there he was. His face shone under the moonlight and he smiled. I walk, and run, and walk, and run and he made his way towards me. Hearts a beating, walking and running in rhythm I am a woman in love. We met on the bridge in Shanghai remember. I nod I nod and rubbed my eyes, but i have never been to Shanghai. Never been not even once in my life.
But I still dream of him in Shanghai. He and I on that bridge, kissing. A reunion. I put on my boots and go sleepwalking and when I called he answered. I still dream of Shanghai he told me, I still dream of you.
So do I. I still dream of Shanghai. I still dream of you.
But I have never been to Shanghai, I have never met him.
And yet I dream, of Shanghai.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Changing Shoes
Whatever busyness was around me, was immaterial. I was comfortably cosy in my little bubble on this Sunday afternoon. There was no point in worrying about the week to come, after all it was Sunday, so I settled into the cosy seat at the quiet cafe in the middle of town with some coffee and honey. Pondering upon certain thoughts on life I embrace the feeling of happiness. I have learnt to recognise it, and be grateful for it. A dream I once had misted to the forefront, and I started drawing lessons from it. In that dream I was she.
She awoke, three a.m sleepless.There was an urgent need to get somewhere, she just didn't know where so the urgency, was at the surface of all her thoughts keeping her sleepless so she rose and drew herself a hot bath. Running downstairs to turn on the coffee machine she brew herself a strong cup while waiting for the bath to fill up. Carrying the hot cup of black liquid upstairs into the bathroom she felt the urgency once again. The direction which she needed to head was clear and so she made concrete the decision that was a-floating. She would start on the journey today. In the hot tub, sipping the hot cup of coffee she soaked in every possible good in the moment before getting up, drying off and getting dressed. She pulled on her t-shirt and shorts and pulled the jersey over her to keep warm. She grabbed her bag, and stuffed all she thought she needed into it, grabbed her keys and headed into the kitchen. She filled a quarter of her thermos with hot coffee and topped it up with steaming hot milk, grabbed a bag of apples, and a bag of bread and headed out the door. She waited while the garage door rolled up and started the engine of her brand new car. She laid down the stuff in her arms on the passenger seat and looked on her shoe rack for the perfect pair of shoe. She pottered until she found them, leaned on her car and pulled up the pair of brown ugs. Perfect for the journey.
She drove on at a consistent speed and she felt the urgency lift as she headed towards the highway. She picked up and dropped off a few hitchhikers, who entertained her with a few interesting conversations that kept her journey interesting and night fell. She drove through the night, and day, finished her coffee and felt the need to stock up on the caffeine, and empty her bladder. She drove into the next town and pulled into an empty parking lot and walked into the cosy little cafe to fill her tummy, afterwhich she headed towards the washroom.
The washroom was located in a singular bungalow at the corner of the road outside which sat rows and rows of shoeracks filled with shoes. Shoes of all shapes, sizes and colours. She removed her ugs and placed them at the corner, took the tag indicating the rack number to remind her of where she had parked her boots, and entered the bungalow. She was immediately greeted with chaos and busyness. She was greeted by a few people, stopped to chat to another bunch, and eventually she was lost in her rest-stop. When she finally arrived at the cubicle, she emptied her bladder and then proceeded to brush her teeth when the urgency hit her again, reminding her of that long journey she still had before her. Panicking she washed her face and tried to find her way back out to the shoe rack. The chaos that greeted her on her way in surrounded her as she found her way to the door where she was immediately overwhelmed with anxiety. She had to find her shoes.
She started down the racks and racks of shoes she realised she did not know what she was looking for. She had forgotten which shoes she had on, so she decided to try on every single pair, with the hope of finding the perfect fit, for her journey. Pair after pair, and day turned to night thrice, and by the fourth day she had begun losing all hope of finding the perfect pair. When she finally stopped she realised. She had spent all week changing shoes. Standing in despair, not knowing what to do next, for she couldn't possibly leave without shoes, she sat on the ground and folded her legs. In her tiredness she fell asleep, and had a dream. And in that dream she was, she.
And in that dream, she was changing shoes, and whilst changing shoes she was greeted by a little old woman who pointed in the direction of the perfect pair. Her own boots. She shook herself awake, reached into her pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where she had parked the perfect pair. Her own boots. With such relief she pulled them on and walked back out to her car, and continued her journey down in the right direction. She drove on, and the urgency lifted. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew that she was going in the right direction, and she had her own shoes.
I found myself awake, three a.m not knowing whether she arrived at her destination, or whether she ever detoured. But I know this, I had spent a portion of my life changing shoes. I walked down to pour myself a cup of hot milk when I looked out the window, where a little old lady waved at me, and smiled. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where I had parked my perfect pair of shoes. I smiled. I will be putting on the perfect pair of shoes before getting into my car later that morning. And I will be going in the right direction, that I am sure. The solitude around me was immaterial, I was comfotably busy in my shoes, headed in the right direction. No one in that singular bungalow would be able to steer me any other. I had my own destination to reach.
And I am not going to be needing to change shoes. No more.
She awoke, three a.m sleepless.There was an urgent need to get somewhere, she just didn't know where so the urgency, was at the surface of all her thoughts keeping her sleepless so she rose and drew herself a hot bath. Running downstairs to turn on the coffee machine she brew herself a strong cup while waiting for the bath to fill up. Carrying the hot cup of black liquid upstairs into the bathroom she felt the urgency once again. The direction which she needed to head was clear and so she made concrete the decision that was a-floating. She would start on the journey today. In the hot tub, sipping the hot cup of coffee she soaked in every possible good in the moment before getting up, drying off and getting dressed. She pulled on her t-shirt and shorts and pulled the jersey over her to keep warm. She grabbed her bag, and stuffed all she thought she needed into it, grabbed her keys and headed into the kitchen. She filled a quarter of her thermos with hot coffee and topped it up with steaming hot milk, grabbed a bag of apples, and a bag of bread and headed out the door. She waited while the garage door rolled up and started the engine of her brand new car. She laid down the stuff in her arms on the passenger seat and looked on her shoe rack for the perfect pair of shoe. She pottered until she found them, leaned on her car and pulled up the pair of brown ugs. Perfect for the journey.
She drove on at a consistent speed and she felt the urgency lift as she headed towards the highway. She picked up and dropped off a few hitchhikers, who entertained her with a few interesting conversations that kept her journey interesting and night fell. She drove through the night, and day, finished her coffee and felt the need to stock up on the caffeine, and empty her bladder. She drove into the next town and pulled into an empty parking lot and walked into the cosy little cafe to fill her tummy, afterwhich she headed towards the washroom.
The washroom was located in a singular bungalow at the corner of the road outside which sat rows and rows of shoeracks filled with shoes. Shoes of all shapes, sizes and colours. She removed her ugs and placed them at the corner, took the tag indicating the rack number to remind her of where she had parked her boots, and entered the bungalow. She was immediately greeted with chaos and busyness. She was greeted by a few people, stopped to chat to another bunch, and eventually she was lost in her rest-stop. When she finally arrived at the cubicle, she emptied her bladder and then proceeded to brush her teeth when the urgency hit her again, reminding her of that long journey she still had before her. Panicking she washed her face and tried to find her way back out to the shoe rack. The chaos that greeted her on her way in surrounded her as she found her way to the door where she was immediately overwhelmed with anxiety. She had to find her shoes.
She started down the racks and racks of shoes she realised she did not know what she was looking for. She had forgotten which shoes she had on, so she decided to try on every single pair, with the hope of finding the perfect fit, for her journey. Pair after pair, and day turned to night thrice, and by the fourth day she had begun losing all hope of finding the perfect pair. When she finally stopped she realised. She had spent all week changing shoes. Standing in despair, not knowing what to do next, for she couldn't possibly leave without shoes, she sat on the ground and folded her legs. In her tiredness she fell asleep, and had a dream. And in that dream she was, she.
And in that dream, she was changing shoes, and whilst changing shoes she was greeted by a little old woman who pointed in the direction of the perfect pair. Her own boots. She shook herself awake, reached into her pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where she had parked the perfect pair. Her own boots. With such relief she pulled them on and walked back out to her car, and continued her journey down in the right direction. She drove on, and the urgency lifted. She didn't know where she was going, but she knew that she was going in the right direction, and she had her own shoes.
I found myself awake, three a.m not knowing whether she arrived at her destination, or whether she ever detoured. But I know this, I had spent a portion of my life changing shoes. I walked down to pour myself a cup of hot milk when I looked out the window, where a little old lady waved at me, and smiled. I reached into my pockets and pulled out the tag that indicated where I had parked my perfect pair of shoes. I smiled. I will be putting on the perfect pair of shoes before getting into my car later that morning. And I will be going in the right direction, that I am sure. The solitude around me was immaterial, I was comfotably busy in my shoes, headed in the right direction. No one in that singular bungalow would be able to steer me any other. I had my own destination to reach.
And I am not going to be needing to change shoes. No more.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Jam prints through the pink screen
She was the cutest thing I have ever seen, little Sarah Jane. Mummy dearest always took the greatest care and pleasure in fashioning that soft hair into pigtails. Her cheeks were so pink and so soft that I could never resist kissing them. I love that little girl, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen.
Each morning, ten am, just before I go off for that thing called work at the little cafe on Mercy Avenue, she bounces up to me with the biggest grin and demands her morning dose of hugs and kisses from me. And most days, I get jam prints all over my face as she pinches my cheeks and tells me she loves me, the way everyone else does to her. I mind jam prints, but never the ones from her. Her jam prints were love prints that I carefully wipe off before I arrive at that cafe round the corner.
And each night, seven pm, just before I could turn the keys to lock the door I hear her little footsteps running towards me to give me that goodnight kiss before she goes off to bed. And I, I would look forward to picking her up and kissing her soft cheeks goodnight and carry her off to her bed to tuck her in where mummy dearest, I, could read her favourite book to her until her sweet eyes close and her sweet dreams begin. Then I usually spend about a minute or two just looking at her sweet face, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen, little Sarah Jane. She was and I love seeing her, everyday.
Except, I only see her when I am sleeping. My little Sarah Jane. And only when I am sleeping I can wipe the jam prints with my fingers and then lick the sweet taste of strawberry jam, and only when I am sleeping can I kiss them soft cheeks goodnight and then again in the morning. So everyday Sarah Jane, wake and goes back to sleep again, while I am sleeping. And everyday dear Sarah Jane waits till I close my sweet eyes and begin my sweet dreams before she comes a-running to me, ready to give me them sweet jam prints. Those were the sweetest jam prints, and she was the cutest thing I have ever seen. My little Sarah Jane.
My ltitle Sarah Jane. I often long for her, my little Sarah Jane, to be real beyond that pink screen called dream.
Each morning, ten am, just before I go off for that thing called work at the little cafe on Mercy Avenue, she bounces up to me with the biggest grin and demands her morning dose of hugs and kisses from me. And most days, I get jam prints all over my face as she pinches my cheeks and tells me she loves me, the way everyone else does to her. I mind jam prints, but never the ones from her. Her jam prints were love prints that I carefully wipe off before I arrive at that cafe round the corner.
And each night, seven pm, just before I could turn the keys to lock the door I hear her little footsteps running towards me to give me that goodnight kiss before she goes off to bed. And I, I would look forward to picking her up and kissing her soft cheeks goodnight and carry her off to her bed to tuck her in where mummy dearest, I, could read her favourite book to her until her sweet eyes close and her sweet dreams begin. Then I usually spend about a minute or two just looking at her sweet face, she was the cutest thing I have ever seen, little Sarah Jane. She was and I love seeing her, everyday.
Except, I only see her when I am sleeping. My little Sarah Jane. And only when I am sleeping I can wipe the jam prints with my fingers and then lick the sweet taste of strawberry jam, and only when I am sleeping can I kiss them soft cheeks goodnight and then again in the morning. So everyday Sarah Jane, wake and goes back to sleep again, while I am sleeping. And everyday dear Sarah Jane waits till I close my sweet eyes and begin my sweet dreams before she comes a-running to me, ready to give me them sweet jam prints. Those were the sweetest jam prints, and she was the cutest thing I have ever seen. My little Sarah Jane.
My ltitle Sarah Jane. I often long for her, my little Sarah Jane, to be real beyond that pink screen called dream.
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