A Momentary Lapse From Reality
"So, who knows the answer to number fifteen?" the teacher asked, pacing around the room, making eye contact with everyone. We just sat there, staring blankly back at her, listening to the droning voice.
I glanced up at the people sitting across from me. Their faces bored and tired, some even half asleep. I, myself, was tired, close to dozing off, paying no heed to what the teacher said. My head bobbed up and down, trying to keep myself awake, trying not to fall over.
Still rambling off on who knows what, she looked at me, smiling. She spoke slowly, with a vocabulary a bit smaller than me. It was then that I finally figured it out! I was cursed with all these kind, misplaced kindergarten teachers! Some who would rant for innumerable minutes and some who would just sit and stare at you, as if they're waiting for you to dance around like a circus monkey. What kind of IB league high school was this?
After my minimal revelation, my mind went blank once again. It got to the point where I could only see the teacher's mouth moving, but nothing was heard. Soon, the door to reality slammed shut, locking the door, and the key, falling into a perpetual hole. I had fallen back into my imaginative world.
Paper butterflies, fluttered around in the pastel red sky. In my world, my imagination was the only source of light; the more I used my mind's eye, the brighter it'd be. Trees were losing their leaves, drifting slowly towards the ground, just a mere reflection of my love for autumn.
A few pencils with two sets of wings, resembled dragonflies as they flew over the pond. They made small ripples in the water as they flew atop them. Droplets of watercolor rain pelted down from the endless sky, hitting everything in its path, and then finally making it to the pale, yellowish green grass. There was nothing but silence, in this place of solace; only my heartbeat echoed in this vast land. I took a glance at my field of words, my vocabulary growing with each time I happened to drop by.
In time, I made my way to my Idea Tree, where my ideas grew. The dried flower petals and the dead leaves crunched with each step I took as I approached my precious tree, which I cherished so dearly.
My fingers traced the trunk of the enormous tree. It stood, probably about twenty times taller than me, as I looked up into the tree. A balmy breeze blew. Every time I visited this world, nostalgia would overcome me. The days when I felt like I needed to get away from everything, I'd drift off right here, in this world. There were days when I hated myself; those days, I'd find myself here. Being here always brought those forlorn memories back, but knowing that they're in the past now, makes me happy.
The tree seemed to hum as the breeze blew through again. Small, black bats flew from the treetops as the light slowly dimmed down. Even my imagination was starting to break down. The stars illumined as the sun set. Then, it came to me. I still had my thoughts, as the inconstant full moon rose. My world still had a chance of existing from the dark hole of nothingness.
The blue whales and their calves emerged from the horizons, as they soared through the sea of stars. What an incredible sight it was. I had to write, at this point, inspired. I walked over to another tree, scrawny and small, compared to my other one. Off one of the branches, I grabbed a piece of loose-leaf paper. From my pocket, I grabbed a pen and started writing.
It's great to write stories. You could always put yourself in the character's persona, rather than your own, never having to be yourself. Your characters would come to life, and you say, "I want to be just like her or him." Imagining…fantasizing, what it'd be like to have the life you've never thought you'd have. The perfect life that'd suit you most.
And then there would be the feeling you get every time something cataclysmic happened to the main character. It seemed to happen every time you read that one part; you wouldn't be able to shake it off. There were the great feelings of sadness. Depression. Happiness. Loneliness. Anxiety. Love. Anger. Pain. Many more, all weaved into a key item called a book. Every word the writer would choose was meticulously chosen to help feel the story.
If a writer could convey those two feats, everything else would fall into place, thus bringing up another masterpiece in the world of literature. I wish to become that writer some day, some how. I don't ask anymore of my life than just that.
"Miss Owens, will you answer the question for the fourth and final time." The teacher frowned at my lack of attentiveness.
Looking down at the paper in front of me, I had nothing, not a word, not a number, just blue and red lines, with scribbles and doodles. It seemed that she had found my lost key to the door of my world and got me out. Twirling my pencil within my fingers, I stuttered a simple, "I don't know." She sighed hopelessly, probably for the lack of my ability to answer a question I probably knew the answer to.
Seeing all of my fellow classmates' confused looks, I rested my chin on my arm, leaning over my desk, thinking how I ended up in this class to begin with. If I were to stay in this class, my wish would be put on hold, as if a person unable to pay for the full price of a priceless item at a store. In my mind, I thought how many writers took remedial English.
These thoughts baffled me, and polluted my ability to imagine, filling my world with doubts. But, to counteract those fearless qualms, I knew I would make it through, whether my condition was an excuse or not. My love for what I did would always keep me true to myself, and would illustrate who I am, no matter what.
 Tantalize thy mind. Dazzle them with details and baffle them with B.S.