By Ellie Hawkins, TIWP Student
With sleep comes dreams. The pain of life slips away into an imaginary world of laughter and magic. The tears of death and sorrow—bottled up like lava waiting to burst—explode into a black hole of nothing. Outside is a world where life is unbearable. Beautiful nature disappears in clouds of dust. The screams of the sick create a constant ringing sound in the back of your head that just won’t go away. Sleep is the only way to forget. Forget that my once ceiling-high stack of food is almost down to nothing. Forget that my mother and father are in some hospital, crammed in a room full of death. Forget that there is nowhere to escape this misery.
As I sleep, I dream of a sycamore tree, one that touches the sky. I’m heavy like a weight, as I climb to reach the top. My energy drains as I trudge up, praying I’ll make it. I need to make it. As I approach the top and reach for the last mossy branch, my sweaty fingers start slipping. Slowly my death grip loosens and I scream with all I have left—for all the pain in the world—my chest heaving up and down. I scream until my last breath escapes my parched mouth and there is nothing left to scream for.
I look up towards the crystal blue sky with endless possibilities and then down upon the rotting world—and let go.