Rosaline & Tulpa #3

Tell me,
can true love flee away
like those birds that fly away,
having a ditch from a tree of life
to another?
Tell me,
does giving in
to despondency
signify the fate you're opted for
is
not to be loved?

***

Once the blanket covered up my whole body, I fell asleep in an instant.

Rosaline was now sitting on a bench, somewhere in nowhere. The bench was actually dank but whatever. She kept sitting on it as she was trying to figure out where the dream brought her to this time.

Glimmer of hope to find out where she was never really came after some time--she wasn't so certain how long she'd been in there, it was like only minutes but probably coulod be hours--and therefore she began to amble up to wherever her feet heading to. Trees with bare branches were in her both right and left sides, fogs surrounded all over her, and the light was so dim she only could see something within 10 meters, despite the moonlight. She came to a halt for a second and fidgeted for a little while, shuddering, gasping. It occured to her it was just so bizzare that how cozy it was with the way the wing blew plenty of scattered leaves on the boulevard, with the clouds of obscurity in her mind, and with the emptiness she often felt in spite of the crowded world. A pang of pain pricked through her blood, rushing through each artery in her body. A dog was yelping in a far, far away, out of her sight.

She then continued ambling up, enjoying the odd icy dew on her skin.

That is actually pretty rare that I can be pulled away that easily from the reality to the hazy fuzziness, called dreamland, where Tulpa can never come in. And I am really happy, temporarily happy though, as I have waited for this moment to come for... I don't know, like 10 years? 5 years? Or a year, perhaps? I forget how long I've waited for what I thought was just a vain effort, and I also forget how that even feels.

It occurs to me that I terribly yearn to be dragged to this beautiful unconsciousness. And once I'm in it, I never want to be woken up. Ever since I suffer from this disorder, I barely can sleep. The insomnia always has my mind in tangle like it keeps running, working, over thinking regarding something either real or unreal, I can't really tell, because I have these high imaginations that the average teenagers surely don't have.

Imaginations that made my old friends give me weird look, followed by "what are you talking about, you must be joking since it can't be true" once they heard of it. I remember I laughed my ass off despite the agony, not that it was funny, it was awfully hurting instead. I was afwully hurt. The bitterness I felt was way too much I kept blaming myself for being so stupid telling such a personal privacy to them. Because they considered me as a weirdo afterwards.

Imaginations that made people rant about me being crazy and yap about how that can't possibly happen. I always assume those people just don't get it, I mean how come this impossibly happen when me, the sufferer, the real so-called victim does exist? Me, whom they thought was only another nut, standing and living and inhaling the same oxygen as they do? They only keep compressing each cell in their brain with silly statement that I'm just one with no commonsense, which--of course--isn't true. Or probably is true. Whatever.

And imaginations that made my dad, my own dad, behaves so awkwardly reluctant, distant, cold, and all that to me ever since doctor told him. I was literally aghast in the first month or so once he barely even talked to me. I don't have any siblings, and all I have now is only him. So what can I do? Average teenagers go out of their way to keep bringing up how sweet their dads allegedly are. I believe their stories after all since I also have ever felt them a couple years ago, but it's just no way for now. Oftentimes, I grumble how love can slip away that way, how life can be so unfair, and how everything goes sucks way too much.

Rosaline was now in the middle of the night, where the moon was exactly on top of her. It was downright murky. Her sight was only 10 meters away and yet she kept on wandering.

A wooden building considerably loomed as a haggard one, wedged in a darkening patch of shadow. The grove of trees seemed to be steadily disappearing as--apparently--a shack with a muddy water in front of its door came to her sight. The window, the only window in there, was really dust-frosted. The shack had seemingly not been cleaned up like in ages, and it was gross.

Rosaline knocked the door as though there were any ones living in it. But of course no answer came as a response, and therefore she then opened the door and found an old wooden chair as the only thing left in that shack.

She sat, thought of an absolute nothing, waiting to come down to earth and play another fun game with Tulpa in real life.

This is what I've learned about life: happiness and pain never go hand in hand. --ets281214