AN ODE TO YOUR DREAMS

( 一 ) ghost dreams

ghost dreams.

IT WAS A KNOWN FACT that mankind is not born equal.

Each individual quality that is sewn into every person's being has been predicted way before the existence of the universe. Strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, dreams, and even physical appearance—destiny (their past, present, and future)—essentially exists, and the very proof of this is etched onto a person's skin.

Its color is bold, inky black, like it's hot pressed under the surface layer of skin, trapped on the very bottom part of the epidermis.

19

Nineteen is a number that you were familiar with. With the strike of a line falling straight downwards and a swoop to an 'o' counter clockwise, then falling once again sharply after it reaches its pinnacle, you would find yourself tracing the numbers "1" and "9" respectively. You know this because it's imprinted onto your skin, above where the visible veins in your wrists could be seen, just a finger-length away below your thumb—your wrist.

The number 19 signifies your very existence. It is proof that you live just like every other person in this world. Just like you, other people have a number imprinted onto their wrist, and it is considered as the most essential aspect towards the life of a human person. Others have 8. Others have 53. Others have 89. It's almost their identification as a human. But when you have learned the meaning hidden behind such an initially insignificant number, you have also found that your life will never quite be the same.

Because, as the number 19 causes a large ripple in the river of your lifeline, it is also the shore in which the waters end its movement. It is a number so small out of the scale of infinite numbers that exists within the knowledge of a human's mere existence, but so huge when it comes to its importance.

You were greedy to wish for any other number, whether it be higher or lower. But it doesn't matter. Nothing in this world truly matters when mankind was not born equal in the first place.

Because at the end of the day, 19 will be the age in which you will die.

DREAMS WERE A FICKLE, impermanent, and silly concept for a person like you. You, who will die by the age of nineteen—never truly ceasing to exist, but not there as to witness yourself, much less the world, evolve. To you, dreams were merely sets of images created by your mind's desires, typically a caricature of your reality that deceives you into temporary happiness.

Dreams were the people cramped within fictional stories and pressed between pages for your mind to conjure. People—being the subjects that experience the desires, the aspirations, and the goals that may or may not ever be achieved. Setting—being the situations, circumstances, and experiences you wished to occur to you. And finally, the plot—being the lifeline that binds each aspect to become whole.

Dreams were not necessarily complete, but full, filled with the subconscious desires of a person. But when one lacks the aspect, the foundation of a dream swerves and crumbles. They become useless. They become pictures sown together simply for the sake of imagining.

And to you, dreams were insignificant.

"I know it may be hard to decide on what you want to be doing for the future considering that you are still a high school student. You've got your whole life ahead of you and I bet it's quite long,"

If only you did have a long life ahead of you. Her assumption couldn't be more far off.

You glance down at her right arm. She's seated on the other side of the wooden desk, directly facing you. Her brown hair is tied to a tight and clean bun, not even a speck of hair out of place. Her eyes were dark and typically patient, but it seems that you were one of the few things that caused it to run out. She has her chin resting on her palm with her elbow propped on the desk in an attempt to appear casual, but you find none of this to be comfortable to say the least.