Altering Reality to Meet the Song of Hope by Yamilette Contreras (14, Texas)

There are instances in this life that continue to grasp at objects or ideas that I have failed to comprehend. What was so special about my days that required this longing solemn and inconsistent series of what others refer to as “ups” and “downs”? 

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I was numb to time and what it was that it wanted to inform me of, constantly expecting me to wake at its song of the morning and doze off at what marked its definition of night. However, people failed to discern my unwillingness to do what was expected of me, what it is that the phenomenons of life entailed for me to pursue, yearn after, and beg for in my visualizations of living the perfect life. I would lay down at night, convince myself that what I was doing was the correct way to go on about my days, listen to the deafening responses to the questions that would only creep in as light snuck its way to the open crevices of my window, and get notified by the being of all creation that life had awoken with its song of hope, a hope only those who tried would want to learn of. I couldn’t rest, for my limbs collectively chose to paralyze themselves into that of an unconscious state that only my subconscious could alleviate; therefore, I stayed where I had wanted to. I saw what was left of the sun drain itself of its might until its opposite shone its light for what was left of the day. 

​This allowed me to incomprehensibly gather what was spoken of on the outside; from the occasional melody of our life’s birds to silence so elegant, it couldn’t strain its image with the concept of sound. Hours seemed like minutes in this fantasy of mine, defining that my time wanted to fit my internal desires of meeting the fate of my future sooner than others’ time wanted me to. Maybe then I could alter my life to fit a better image, one where I would look forward to alleviating myself from these paralyzed limbs and foreign sentiment.

My fantasy was a sacred one, a precious identity of breathtaking euphoria that could manage to accumulate whatever joy I may have still possessed. Even with the sporadic prowlers of society that would call my Mondays a Wednesday being present, it was consecrated to the God that was prominent for its fabrication of this immense elation. Dismissing my bliss, there was one who had interlaced their wire to my design. It was present, but not there. It spoke but muted itself to keep an unspoken peace between whoever it was and myself. Its figure wasn’t unfamiliar, but it was weary with its worn-out figment of a human. I would poke and pry at who it was supposed to represent, whose narrative was so familiar to mine that it integrated itself to the formulation of my ecstasy? Who is this? What could they possibly crave in the sad reality of who I was, what I found to be pleasure?

They stuck around. They stood and spoke a silent cry, all of which seemed foreign to me. It glew under the stars of my home, a brighter light than that of another human’s. It drew me to it, but it was a sorrow that tied us to one another. This wire they infested my dream with was connected to an end I couldn’t identify, a path interwoven with a revolting aura that corrupted my thoughts with that of my sorrow from my reality. I loathed this being as much as I praised it, drawing me in whenever it was most accessible to me. I couldn’t help but notice how drawn I was to them, somehow arriving closer to its location every passing hour, minute, or day; whatever it is that it wanted to be in my world. I would be met with a few miles of unidentifiable tears and uncoordinated strolls to its location. It was endearing how much I possessed for this figment of what heaven or hell wanted me to interpret it as, a push in a lost direction.

Their thoughts had become closer to mine – informing that it would be near with the steps I took to meet it. It was soft-spoken, almost delicate, in the way it perceived my forefront. It spoke like it didn’t want me to fear it but be joyous at their arrival. I was impaired with my sorrow the closer I got, a lost emotion that I wish had perished alongside this being that had now emphasized my regrets in my reality. It subtly allowed me to reminisce on what it was that I was missing: friends, family, joy, fear, anger, sadness - everything I had heard about in a previous life. It tranquilized me, the feelings that were distant to my existence and the tears that painted the features on my face that were now tainted with the intentions of creating a human being. It had become too arduous on my being, but that only meant I had arrived. The location where I traveled to with small steps, silence, an unawareness of time, and cries that could only be heard by them.

There they were. They stuck to their preferred posture, neatly combed hair, and their incomprehensible speech, awaiting my arrival with a new understanding of who I was. They never moved, nor did they chastise me when I had seemed to arrive late. They simply looked me over and spoke, “There you are.”

“How is it that you are now accessible to me? I have never spoken to you. I have never heard what you were trying to inform me of, and I didn’t recognize your language. You were blurry and another illustration of my imagination.", I proclaimed.

“I spoke your language and you failed to understand me? Did you dismiss me like the beings in your reality?”

“I can assure that this does not- “

“You killed me, didn’t you? You slaughtered your image of me in your subconscious and expected me not to know? You didn’t want to be reminded of what you are, or who it was that you were, correct?”

“I do not know of you. I can’t be accused of “murdering” someone who is not me. I am not associated with your hope, nor am I associated with the emotions you inflict on me.” I had never lied in my life as I had at that moment. I knew who they were. I always did. However, I couldn’t be responsible for killing off who I was, naïve and prone to withstand the anatomy created by the Gods that chose humans to endure their sentiment. I envied this person, this figment of my imagination. They were all I wanted to be, but they were no longer a part of the reality outside of my walls. If I could embrace my warm self before I depart, I would, but she left before my fantasies set it.

“I know how you feel. I want you to recognize yourself, not the person that lost themselves when they were introduced to the harsh mentalities of their world. Please, return to the home you loved. Leave your fantasy to learn of who you were meant to become.”, she stated.

“Will it get easier? Living, I mean. I feel little to nothing in that world, so if I return, it must be for something.”

“It will improve once you seek out what you look for. Let me go and pursue what it is that you really want in your next life.”

That was all she said before I muted her once more. Her thread led me home, her warmth guiding me with the ever-so-distant touches that pushed me in the direction of a new reality. I embraced this being, this person so fragile to what it is that she had learned. She was so kind, her comfort lighting my life up with the slices of hope I had failed to comprehend all that time ago. She was so precious to me, and I only wished to keep her for longer, but after our embrace became empty, I knew she was gone.

It had been three days since my indulgence in the fantasy I dreamt of for many nights. I had awoken alleviated, with the crack of sunlight just now becoming visible through my tainted window. It was warm, but I had finally gotten up from my resting place to look outside. It was a color distant to me, but it was so beautiful in its own intricate ways. I had commenced an alteration to my far-fetched reality, one that allowed me to discern the beings that the Gods created, catch up with what time intended me to meet, and finally let me hear the song of hope.