I had this dream the other night. Nightmare, I would have called it. Because there was a victim in the dream whom I could not have saved.

I had a much worse nightmare months ago. Jeez why would I remember these negative dreams better than the others? Okay probably I've become aware that these dreams would have reflected my mind status. Subconscious things. So if I'm feeling the least bit unwell, subconsciously or not, it won't be a bad thing to pay more attention, to contour the underlying reason there, and hopefully, to solve it.

Back to the point. In my dream, there was this young teenage girl. She was working on a book. She kept telling others that someone would kidnap her or something. No one was to believe her. However, in the end, she vanished, leaving the book and everything in place, in the same exact order. The only difference was that she was gone. Nothing else seemed to have been touched, or altered.

I was a detective in the dream. I was like, a Dr. Watson, working alongside Mr. Holmes. The rest of my colleagues seemed to be engaging themselves in those paper work, because they believed the girl was merely playing hide and seek with everybody. They didn't bother to find the girl, they honestly believed the girl would return on her own after being sick of such silly games.

My colleagues were very hard-working people too. They didn't mess with their job. They just didn't really think anybody else would have broken into the girl's room. The girl was actually on a train, staying in her cart, before she disappeared. But I got the book that she left..... (unfinished story)



Inanimate objects

It draws me back to a musical box, which I possessed when I was five or six. There was a mirror, a star-shaped mirror of palm-sized, which I wouldn't rejoice to look at, because I didn't think the face in the mirror was beautiful. It was disappointing, even. That was sincerely true, when I was much younger. And there was a drawer underneath the whole thing which, whenever I pulled it out, music started. It was "Für Elise" by Beethoven. I could play it now, after so many years. I would watch, mesmerized, by how the little thing produced music, ding-ding-ding-ding...... I had to rotate the back key to keep it going. I was always contented with listening, and watching, the music coming out. There were a set of tuned teeth on a steel comb, hanging over a revolving cylinder with metal pins, plucking each musical note. I adored that musical box. It was a fancy to me.

I remember when we were much younger, we didn't really have much of these fancy little collections or ornaments. That was the best piece I've got. I loved it, and did treasure it. I didn't do anything stupid such as bouncing it off the ground, or exposing the delicate metal piece to water. I didn't know about rusting at that point. It was instinct. I just prevented as much as I could prevent. It lived long.

As if inevitable, it died after a very very long time. It had long-lived anyway. I certified it to be dead, because it could no longer sing. The stone cylinder could still move, but the pins and comb went chillingly silent. It was mute. Dead mute.



Why am I writing, to whom am I writing

I'm writing mostly because I want to let it out. I'm a fairly talkative person. I talk non-stop to my husband. And before I was married, I talked non-stop to my father. I wonder if I will bear a son or a daughter, I will later in my life talk non-stop to them.

Well. But I can't talk everything. There are repentance, guilt, sense of inferiority, sense of humor as well, sarcasm, etc. that I have kept to myself. I want to let them out. In the form of different characters, to continue hiding my fears of bringing them too open to light. I could make a funny story. I could invent some fake characters to blend with them all, to hide things nicely. But I always believe there could be chemistry among the true and fake characters in my stories, fiction, whatever. And these chemistries could be some aid to understand my existence better. I take it as a life-long therapy.