The Waiting Room

It was the day he died. They carried his body outside the hospital as if he was just a sack of potatoes. The linen blanket that covered the still-warm body was blue. He hated that color more than he hated hospitals. He said it reminded him about the river where his friend had drowned.

Eleven twenty-three pm and the sky was crying, just little particles of covalent molecules crashing against the ordinary looking trees. Now it was the time he would have said the angels were sad, and they were pouring their tears outside the skies, all the way throughout the clouds, marveling against our mortal skins to make us understand the beauty of a cherub's heart break.

I knew I would never think about that again when it rained, I wasn't half the believer he always believed me to be. I was more practical, in the science-trumps-religion kind of way. For me, those weren't angel's tears, just a boring condensation of too far over-weighted clouds praying nature to break free.

We walked around the street, two blocks away from the hospital, where we have parked the car one day ago. In the morning that trail had seen easier, less heavy, closer. But right in the pit of dark it felt so different. It felt heavy to walk away, just turn around to go home. Maybe the way seemed longer than before because the Sun gave a different light to things than the Moon did. The Moon was for poets, the Moon was for lovers, the Moon was for dreamers. The night was full of metaphors and as I walked thought the street I thought about fifteen different verses in which I could end this night. Describing the exquisiteness of the ordinary park across the street and the desolated merry-go rounds, about the cracks in the pavement I was walking on, and the constant click-clack of autumn leaves cracking against my feet.

It was much easier to write when I was sad.

The three of us opened the car doors and closed them in the same automaticy in which we had opened them. All in a same synchronization. It sounded more like a 'pluck' than 'crack' but it didn't matter anyway. Some people sustain that it's all on the details. My family is not one of those people.

I didn't cry that day, I didn't sleep either. I just watched throughout my small-sized window the whole world revolving around that night. I wondered about the children in the streets and whether they have a place to sleep, do they have become immune to the cold? I wondered about the lonely poets that write about perfect sunrises as they contemplate the Moon. I wondered if they were like me, if they wrote because they couldn't live. If every work of fiction was in reality a fragment of the life they wished they knew. Or part of their tormented nature. It was always the poets the sensitive ones. The susceptible of internal injuries. The ones that sang only when no one could hear them and live only inside the pages of their novels. It was us, the romantic and the tragic. The melodramatic wreckages and the ones who could turn a rock into a daisy with just the right word to fit at the right moment in the right place of the right verse.

The night was cold but my window was too small to become frozen. I couldn't sit around the edge so I had to watch the world unfold standing up. And it was always harder to maintain the balance while being on my two feet. God knew how much I was about to crumble. But crumbling on the inside doesn't affect your chemical balance. I think I learned that from my Health Class. The teacher is really nice, she could be my friend. I don't have many friends. I think it would be nice if we were close.

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Looking at the sky tonight doesn't remind me of shooting stars. And I can't write cheesy allegories concerning them. Tonight shooting stars are not a sophisticated way to explain how much I loved him. They just are thousands of constellations burning at thousand top degrees above skin tolerance. Maybe in ten years the fire of piercing stars will burn our skins worse than the UV rays. This is the moment when I remember that I should turn off my light lamp because if not the CO2 will keep on rising until every glacier melts and Antarctica becomes a recreation beach with penguin corpses hanging onto the defrosted pine trees. This is the moment when I become aware of how similar I am to everyone else, Why change if it won't make a difference in the world? Maybe if all of us thought as Ecologists this world will be different. As these thoughts consume my mind I wished I had been born someone more certain. Where I get angry at God for not making me being born a Mathematician, a Doctor or an Engineer. Anything more certain than being born a Writer. I look at the Moon and figure that I don't need artificial light at all. The incandescent glow of moonlight is enough to show the contorted gestures of my face I will never let anyone else see. The Moon is my best friend, the Moon knows me better than I know myself. With her I have no secrets and no shame. I let her light sink deep within every fiber of my body. And then I get my answer, maybe the little kids on the street don't need a blanket or a home, maybe they were born poets just like me and all they need is the Moonlight glaze to keep them warm.

I was not born an ecologist but I will turn off my lamp anyway.

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Today I smashed the car. Sixty kilometers per hour and there was freedom for ten seconds. I remember that minutes before the crash I knew what it was going to happen. I knew it before I even get out of my bed this morning. I knew I shouldn't have wakened up. Let me be happy if only in my dreams. But then I remembered I had lab practiced today. Where they wouldn't teach me how to improve my environment or stop the global warming but instead would give me a glass tube filled with eosin-orange substances and then would ask me to burn a granola bar. That was what we did last week. And as the granola made contact with the fire all I could think about was speeding off the clock so that the class would end up already and I could go to the lunch break where I would ask Harri to put "Friday I'm in Love" on the speakers even if I'm not really in love and my iPod is in my schoolbag and then talk about shallow things we are going to do this weekend. I know I should have thought about more profound things. Like the Starving Kids of Africa and what that burnt granola would have been to them. I'm betting it would have been like a whole season of Christmas Time. But I didn't, I guess I'm really just like everyone else.

I used to love Fridays until now. I drag my destroyed vehicle all the way through the main avenue of the street and park it on top of a sidewalk that doesn't look like a sidewalk at all. And then just without previous warning I start to cry. Just like that, a month of numbness escaping from my eyes like butter. Thousands of tears beginning to fall from my eyes, and this time I'm not using Hyperboles and there are literally thousands of tears slurring down my eyes. They fall away at full speed, much faster than sixty kilometers per hour. Tears are much free than all of the race automobiles at a competition. And I'm thinking about dehydratation. Oh the most stupid things come to mind at my most critic moments. And here I am, dying one second at a time and wondering if the people that had died in the desert really died because the sun melted them away? Or perhaps they died because they cried so much thinking they were going to die because of the Sun that they didn't realize they cried so much they were dehydratating.

I take my cell phone outside my pocket and dial dad's number. I punch the keys automatically and suddenly everything feels so surreal. These fingers are not mine, and these eyes are not mine, and these tears are not mine. My soul has abandoned even the last corner of my body and it seems like I'm watching through a glass window everything that's happening to the not-me in the could-be parallel world. He tells me to calm down; his voice is comfort and safety. He tells me he will be there within the eternal gap of five minutes. & so in the infinity of those five minutes I think about Snow Patrol's song "For once I want to be the car crash not just the traffic jam", truth be told yesterday I asked for it but I was referring to it in the metaphorical way not the literal way. Maybe God was not born a poet after all.

Six minutes later I'm still curled up in a fetal position crying with all my might. He parks the trunk behind my car and turns to look at the damage I had caused. I can see his face. I haven't watched the damages myself. I am afraid of what I'd find. It is almost like looking in the mirror; I don't like to see the damages of my true self. He plops himself down on the passenger seat and calls the Insurance. They said they will be there ASAP. Then he hugs me tightly and he is warmer than the Moon. He smells of aftershave and shampoo dreams. He pats my back reassuringly telling me everything is going to be okay. But I can figure out he is really talking to himself and not to me. So I begin to cry harder and he begins to crack lines such as "Don't worry for material things, the important thing is that you are fine, everything's okay" but not everything's okay, because my grandpa is in the hospital and he is going to die. It is just a matter of hours. And he is going to die because the Doctor who is in fact more a Killer than a Doctor killed him instead of saving him as he promised he would. Not that he needed to be saved before the surgery seeing as he was just getting a vesicle stone removed. And that's when it hits me that that is the real reason why I'm crying and it feels awful, but it feels better than not crying. This is ten times better than being numb. So I tell him all these things I would normally just consult with the Moon. And he begins to cry too. Thousands of salt-covalent molecules crash against my fuzzy hair. And we are hugging and we are crying and it's just so sad that it has a poetic tone about it, a beautiful tone about it. I think the children on the streets, those who were born Writers could write a beautiful poem if they just knew how to write, about the destroyed family inside the destroyed vehicle.

Thirty minutes later and he will take the fall. Insurance Guy takes pictures of the mess I've made. And tells us to wait for someone to move the once-car that raised up to sixty kilometers per hour to break free. We wait as I listen to Death Cab For Cutie's "Passenger Seat". And I think about the beauty of it all. In that instant I'm convinced than never a song about love had been deeper or more beautiful. Not even Lifehouse's Everything. Ben Gibbard makes me jealous. Maybe he wrote it for me. "When you feel embarrassed, then I'll be your pride, when you need directions I'll be the guide. For all time" I wonder if I would ever have the chance to tell this to somebody aside from my pen, and better yet I wonder if I would ever have the chance to dedicate that song to someone that matches the description listed above.

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I know I should be doing my homework. Fill up the hundred and twenty pages of my art notebook instead of watching the Third Season of Sex and the City, where Aidan looks a lot like Stephan Jenkins and Carrie becomes a slut and Charlotte is still an idiot. But I can't, it's like I have become glued to this bed. I remember that in second grade we read a story about a guy who died because there was a little monster in his pillow that sucked up his vitality and energy killing him gradually. This little monster/bacteria is said to be real and only lives inside the pillows made of feathers. My pillow is made of feathers so I wonder if that monster lays hidden somewhere along or if this is just my excuse to say I rather be asleep because lately reality hurts too much.

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Caro came to see me, she called around five times today. She brought me my Calculus notebook and explained some things to me. She then told me about school and how everyone thought of me when they heard "Chasing Cars". Of course by everyone she was referring to the five-o something people who actually gives a damn. She told me about Pauli being mad at me for not telling her about my grandpa.

She was here for only a couple of hours and then she had to leave. I know it might not seem as much but it is. And I guess no one can guess how she really saved my life today.

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Two days in a row and I feel like shit. I pray for better days to come. I park the also crashed BMW inside the little school. Ale Olmos is with her cousin, that I don't really like. Some of my peers are there too. I go and say hi as I flash them a smile. They don't know what's going on inside of me, but I can't tell them, so that's why I prefer to joke about TOK presentations and school banalities.

The first exam takes two hours, it's so easy that I can't even believe how dumb the questions are so I begin to think that maybe it's harder than it seems and that the people who made it are just playing with our minds. By the third mathematical question I realize that IB had made me a paranoid freak and this stuff is really easy.

The second exam takes another two hours. 566 rather weird and stupid questions of which 230 repeat themselves. I am tired of filling up holes. True, False, False, False True. I reach the first repeated question and I know I should put the same I did in the same question, eighty questions back before. But I can't remember what I marked True or False? False or True? Did I lie on this one or tell the truth for a change?

237.- Are you mentally unstable? True

238.- Do you like hurting horses? False

239.- Have you had the killer urge to kill somebody? False

240.- Do you pee most often than most the normal people do? True

Once I counted the times it was around ten times in twelve hours. But then again I don't think I'm classified as 'normal people'.

The guy who is in my same classroom, four rows to the left is really handsome. His wavy hair is brown as well as his eyes. He has this sexy Pancho-haircut that is long enough to reach out to the length of his eyes. His name is Sebastian. A pretty name for a pretty boy. I wonder if he would enter, I wonder if I would stay there once in. I wonder so many things because the stupid exam makes me think more than I usually do.

The girl on the row next to mine is a fat mean bully. I can tell. The one seating behind me is a nice skinny airhead and the guy next to Sebastian is an asshole who flunked tenth grade. But they are just assumptions, and I really wish I could be less judgmental.

Maybe I am indeed crazy- more than once the thought about me being passive aggressive has crossed my mind. Maybe I won't enter to this University after all.

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The waiting room is so depressing. Last Sunday I was there. It seems like all the sorrow in the world is contended in the barren space of 4x6. Maybe the tragic thing about the waiting room is not the waiting itself, but the uncertainty of what you are waiting for. We all want our loved ones to get better and we all pray for it. Some, like me count their blessings, others pray to the bottle of Scotch, but it doesn't matter in the end, after all in the waiting room there are no differences. In the waiting room we are all the same. Engulfed in our own worries to notice the people that surround us. We all wait and keep waiting never knowing what we're waiting for.

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They say I'm going to starve. S-T-A-R-V-E the only word the poets on the street know how to spell. They say I shouldn't study creative writing. They had warned me, if I do so I would have just smashed sixteen years of education. All the promising future thrown out to the trash can. I want to tell them to fuck off. I want to tell them to leave me alone and stop smashing my dreams just because they couldn't live up to theirs. But instead I just smile politely and walk away from there. I want to tell them that I've been starving to live and do what I like for so long that it won't make a difference to me. Maybe it had always been in my destiny to starve, like the poets of the street.

I re-read constantly the fragments of semi-fiction and wannabe-poetry I had written in the last couple of years. I read then the fiction and the poetry of other authors online. And that's when I lose faith in myself. Maybe I wasn't born a writer after all, but I'm certain I wasn't born anything else either. Maybe I was just born.

I swore I wouldn't let it get to me. I swore the words would never work as well as my words, after all I was the writer, I knew all the words in the world, even the ones they can't possibly know. But in plain and simple Spanish they had smashed my dreams. I'm applying for Economy first thing next week.

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Tomorrow is going to be awful I can tell. I'm going to have to do a whole semester of IB art in just twelve hours. And I don't even care.

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This is the last time I would see him, at least that's what the doctors say, but with them you can never know, one day they tell you one thing, the other they say otherwise.

I know they are lying though, not because he is going to make it, because I can't know that, the only one who can know is God. He is the one with the answers but I can't bring myself to ask him those types of questions while I'm in the waiting room. But what they don't know is that the last time is never the last time because I would always hold a memory of him in my mind. I will always remember him the way he was before this nightmare, and perhaps I would write about him, about the great man he is and all the good things he had done. Suddenly 88 years just don't seem enough. This doesn't make sense. He has to make it because if he doesn't I think I might lose the last piece of faith I cling onto.

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It's been one month and twenty three days since the last time I wrote something decent. The tragedy of someone else's life. I kinda felt bad for writing it, is not my tragedy to tell to the world but I'm a stealer.

I've been working on two particular pieces for more than three weeks and I still can't get them to sound convincing. The first one is about Him. I never had a muse until now, even though he in fact can't be a muse because he is a man. I am trying so hard to write about Him, it was never that difficult with anyone else. I wrote many things to Charlie and I didn't even like him that much. So why can't I write about Him? I need desperately to plaster Him in paper, before it's too late and I had forgotten every minimum detail about Him. Maybe if I am able to write something as beautiful as He is to me I would get to know Him, even if it is just through fragments of my imagination. With the little information I know and the wide world I had for Him inside my mind I can get to know Him. Gluing the pieces together until they fit into a puzzle of perfect creation. I had to make it perfect to make it real. He reminds me of Beauty but I can't write about either. I need for Him to be real if just in two thousand words or three hundred, I don't really care. Before I forget His black wavy hair and all the nights that cling onto it. Before I forget the pouty lips even Angelina Jolie will envy. Before I forget His brown shimmering eyes that held the fire of summer and the intensity of winter. The thousands of ridiculous metaphors He holds in his tan skin.

Sometimes I think about Him before I go to sleep, or when I wake up, or when I'm at class. Sometimes He doesn't seem like a dream or a best-seller material at all, He just seems the way He is. The way I see Him, the way I don't know Him.

I wonder what He smells like. I think He has a sweet odor. A combination of burning cedar and cinnamon and coffee. Maybe someday I would know the way He really smells, and the real history of my Midnight-hair Boy.

He is mine even if he doesn't know it yet. He is mine because He lives in every inch of me.

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I wonder what everyone else is doing while I write this. Are the Ecologists thinking of new ways to save the world? Is the salesperson wondering how he is going to sell his next product? I guess I might never know just the same way they might never know what I'm doing this sad sad night. This infinite night. Where is no Moon at the sky or enough words to describe what I feel. I need new words, maybe I was born an Inventor. I'll invent words. Maybe tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

But as I glance at my clock I realize tomorrow's today already. & right now I really wish it was raining. I wish I was cold. I wish my grandpa would make it, and I wish I knew how to end this.

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It's been four days since they Doctor's had warned us it was just a matter of hours. Four days but he is still here with us. He is my favorite fighter, he posses this strength that would make Hercules cry. Everyone talks about him in past tense. He was a great man. He did great things. He was so strong. That just feels so wrong. He still is a great man and he has done many things and he is so strong. It's all in the tenses. It's not a matter of past participles or present perfect's and ings. It's a matter of respect. Why talk about him like he is already gone? He is still here, probably dying, glued to a bed, living from machines, but still here.

I realized that most of the time I talk in Present Perfect Tense and it bothers me. I had never been a big fan of irony.

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Our bodies are just the imperfect cages that hold our souls prisoners. That's what Plato thought about the place of systems and organs and cells interacting. Our body is like a whole metropolis. Veins and arteries are the highways for the blood and oxygen and CO2. The heart is the main street and the brain would be the government. Controlling and manipulating every other organ. But once in awhile there are some rebels, and so they had to be exiled from the body. The appendix is a whole democrat, he doesn't like monarchies most of the time and that's why it's the most common amputee. It's okay, just give me anesthesia and patch me up, send me home in a few hours. I want to eat ice cream once I wake up. Science makes death seem so far away. Even when you polish the City of Organs medication can still save you. But only for awhile. The human body is like a metropolis. You break a column and suddenly all of the other columns start to break as well. Just like pieces of Domino falling, crashing against each other. Creating a whole mess of white and black. The thin line between death and life. Black and white. Death and life. So pristine it looks against the blue sheet. If I'm dying I won't let them touch my body with hand gloves. I won't let them entubate me. I won't have a life support. I will die just like I was meant to. I will die so pure and out of science. With pristine insides so white and black like domino pieces no one ever dared to play.

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In the morning the same sky looks different. The same street doesn't feels like the same street any more. The cricket's noises are replaced by the bird's chirps. Everything looks different but myself. They ask me how I am, and I tell them its okay I'll be better in a few days. I don't know what else to say. I don't need their pity, I don't want to sound like a whino freak. I tell them its okay, I'll be better in a few days.

I just wish I knew how many more days until my better days.

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I've been thinking about it over and over again and I don't want to graduate. I don't think I'm ready if they'd ask me. The black toga and IB Diploma I won't get. Class Speech 2007. Sixteen years flash against my eyes in one second. They should ask us if we want this. They should ask us if we are ready. I bet I won't be the only one who would ask for one more year. But that's the thing about schools, they never ask you anything. They just tell you what you have to do. Sixteen paintings for next Thursday even if you are not an artist. Advanced math even if you are not a genius. Four hundred dollars for graduation. I'm not ready, but the school will never accept that. They will just tell me I have to be ready, they don't care how but I have to be ready for the 23 of May. I don't think I will be.

Around a month and a week ago we had the "College Fair 2007"A fair of futures. Mathematician Careers in this booth. "In the meantime before I get married" colleges this way. A whole parade of American Dreams. Who gives more in the fair of futures? Twenty different possibilities colliding against each other and I'm in the center of it all. Who can sell more pamphlets?

I returned home that Friday carrying a big bag with black and blue pens, eight different thermos, ninety college brochures, and fifty thousand more doubts.

Which future I was going to buy? I consult it with the Moon six months ago.

I'm still waiting for an answer.

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I talked to him about Boston and the icicles during Winter. I described the pine trees covered in frozen snow. Then I talked a bit about my muse, without mentioning Him at all. It's amazing all the things you can say about a person without even opening your mouth. I don't think he heard me but I kept talking anyway.

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I have one hundred contacts in my cell phone and not a single number I could call. I was lying against my wooden door that day. Watching the mess of the room. Is like if I had been possessed when I was screaming and tearing out my hair. It's like a demon had invaded me and that's why I was being brutally cruel. I laid my head against the door but I couldn't cry. Maybe that was my punishment. I couldn't cry, not a single tear, no matter how many times I shut my eyes.

One hundred contacts and no one who would answer. I scanned the list carefully. Beatriz & Bruno & Pancho & Fierro… One hundred contacts and no one who cared. No one who'd listen. I punched the bottoms and began to erase them, one by one.

When I checked it again I just had fifty contacts left.

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The question 428 read; Do you constantly wish you were a kid again? That was the moment where I could had spurred a five thousand word essay that talked about Neverland and what a beautiful place it must had been. How if life was in fact a fairy tale I would have stay there with Peter Pan. I would have known no evil then, no death, no worries, no fears. It would have been me and my naivety forever. Against the muddy soil of after-rain and caterpillars that never turned to butterflies. The concept of butterflies is so over-rated. I wonder if they would ask them if they ever wish to be a caterpillar again? Dependant and loved. Following the trail instead of having to fly for themselves.

With independent wings they rise against the sky and fly far away from Neverland just like the name, never to return, never to look back. They bought the American Dream; A pair of wings to see the world with grown up eyes. I wonder if they know that in just a matter of weeks the American Dream will turn into the American Nightmare. The most probable thing to happen is that their wings will broke, and the soft grass of Neverland won't be there to catch their fall.

I know I should compare myself to a butterfly. I can tell how the world had tatter my wings. But I won't because I hadn't even learned to fly. And I know that when I eventually learn how to fight against the gravity it won't be pleasant. But I'm going to try it anyway.

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I can see it, every time the phone rings he jumps. He is waiting for the call. An announcement of bad news. And before I know it, my home has become a Waiting Room when we are waiting, always waiting never knowing what we're waiting for.

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They say that what you don't know can't hurt you. They say that if you expect nothing from anyone you would never be disappointed. I think they are lying, because in the waiting room not knowing is the worst feeling in the world. And is it better to live secluded form everyone and everything? Is this the price we have to pay? That way if someone you would have come to love dies you won't be hurting because you never let yourself love the person.

Somehow this doesn't seem enough. Life is for living and people who don't love or hurt don't live. Because those two feelings are how life can be summarize in two words. Hurt and Love. Black and White. Death and Life. Of course there are the middle colors that make life worth living. If you had never been burn you won't be able to know how good it feels to heal.

No matter how much I have to wait I would eventually heal and when I do everything would be more beautiful than it has ever been before I placed my hands on the fire.

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She talks way too much and I don't know why everyone seems to care so incredibly much. She talks too much because she has lots of things to say. She talks too much but I love her. She talks too much and they can't stand it. She talks too much and no one listens. They don't know that she talks too much because she believes that way they'll listen.

I made a vow to her that I will always hear her even if she talks too much.

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She's forty four and I'm more mature than she. He is Eighteen and I'm more mature than he. I wondered what agreement they did to remain in Neverland so long.

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There were fifteen thousand ways I could have end this. Find the perfect closure sentence. Let the burden be a little shorter. There were fifteen thousand ways I could have end this five and a half pages before. Fifteen thousand ways I am still thinking about what can I say about myself to sound a little less pathetic.

I guess this is the part where I should tell the world how we made it through my grandpa sickness, or how we were able to save the world from Global Warming in the Al-Gore's style. Where everyone assumes I wrote a powerful novel that made me rich enough to feed every starving poet of the street and make the dream smashers choke in their words. I guess this is the part where I should crack lines about how I met Him and we fell in love immediately. When I'm to describe the softness of his hair or the perfection of his lips against my lips, or the crashing against our skins in the purest act of love. Just like Domino pieces colliding against each other.

The part in which I say I got the IB Diploma and got to wear a beautiful gown for Prom and danced and danced to the symphony of love with Him. Where I found a way to touch the Moon.

The time in which I state how I got through the adversity of pain with nothing but a scratch. Where I say I find my way back to Neverland and discovered that it was not for me anymore. Where I become content with who I was and where I was with whom I was with.

But I won't because "this is not a fact not fiction for the first time in years". And I'm still waiting for the future to unravel. I'm still waiting inside this waiting barren room of life. I'm still waiting not knowing what for, but praying, just praying that in the end it would be something worth waiting after all.