Fiction: A Dream Within A Dream

14 februari, 2019, 13:41 International, Krönika Lämna en kommentar

The second I opened up my eyes I regretted it. I started gazing at my ceiling as I numbered the amount of hatred I had within me – reasons of why I would rather enjoy being back: I hated the curse of February the fourteenth that echoes in every romantic spy out there – which ironically comes to life whenever February the first hits, I hated the fact that I no longer can finish a good book within a week, and I hated the pile of dishes in my sink that never seemed to decrease – regardless of the amount of time and effort I put into it every single day.

Once I realized my white ceiling would not budge to change colour to black I twisted around in my bed until I could reach my black IKEA-clock. The longer arrow pointed towards West, although quite close to reach sharp, while its little sister was pointing to the East – almost three hours away from when Kåren had shut its doors for this Friday night.

It amazed me how I was able to be awake at this hour. I was exhausted. My body was shaking, like the leaves during the fall. God I love the fall. I was born then you know – when everything else died I decided to live. ”The party cannot be over yet”, I must have thought as any other celebrated child during the very much neglected part of the year.

As I oriented my way around my apartment I found my phone next to the group of cacti, on a small wooden table in the living room. I picked it up and turned it off of flight mode – a habit I have whenever I go to bed. “God I must have SO many messages”, I thought to myself. After having lived abroad three times, having family within a six hour flight distance, been involved with exchange students for over two years and having been on exchange myself – my inboxes must be overflowed with love and hate from various corners of the world – I mean come on – have you not seen my pretty face? Halfway through checking on all my social medias, I instead found myself in a dilemma of self-doubt and questioning myself of being the sort of funny and cute person I have always been told I was. None. Nada. Not even a little innocent like. Not even an odd cheesy GIF of a dog jumping around in a field in form three sad leaves accompanied with a swirl of hearts dying as they reach the sky posted by my own mother. Nothing.

When I slowly shifted myself from being the Queen B of the international stage into the reality of Grumpy I chose to go on a strike. No more social media – they make me depressed I decided.

I jumped out of bed in surprise of the terrible yet piercing sound of my alarm. I looked at the time – 4.54. I picked up my phone to check on Instagram. One message. “When that skirt has made you sick – I will no longer be your mother and you may consider changing your last name to Nobody. /Mom”.

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Sara Salavati

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