A feeling of euphoria settles over me as I stand atop a hill, breeze washing over me as I admired delicate orchids blooming across vast stretches of grassy green fields. Suddenly it’s like the weight of the world has been lifted off of my shoulders: I feel light enough to drift away with the wind, strong enough to lift the snow-covered mountains that pop up in my peripheral vision, free enough to run and dance without caring.
There are hazy memories that meander around my mind, but they lurk in corners and crevices that I can’t reach into far enough. Somehow I want to leave them there and frolic in this vacant space, doing whatever I want, feeling whatever I want, being whoever I want.
But I wasn’t completely unencumbered; from those little crevices came voices, holding me down, tying me into the ground like stakes holding a tent. “This isn’t real.” Reality is a gift that I’d rather not accept. I don’t want to return to a world of disparity and inequality; this ignorance is a gift, and I finally want to give into this temptation, this fantasy. I want to turn myself in, and I don’t care if I haven’t committed any crime.
“This isn't real.” It is.
“This isn’t real.” I want it to be, it can be..
“This isn’t real!” I don’t want to go back, I don’t!
“This isn’t real!” It’s screaming, screeching for me now, clawing its nails into my head and dragging me back. It unleashes its full force on me. I wheeze; I cry; I yell - I don’t want to go back, I don’t. I want everything to stop: time, space, my emotions.
But then, I tearfully awake - existence is both a blessing and a curse.
I am surprised by how much of a drama-queen I can become when I write. Also, this was a random prompt - not based on me.