text: Slowly drifting, eyes are closing, the state of lucidity has come upon me once more. This nightly occurrence of which I have no control, yet more control than most will ever know. This world I create of my own accord, living vividly in the creations of those before. The pieces I choose to take, are that which is taken for granted every day, It saddens me to know this must end, for when the clock hits 8 I must rise for the day. The sun shines through my window, it’s harsh rays landing directly upon my face. Is it morning already? It can’t be! There wasn’t enough time! I curse the sun for being such a reliable alarm clock. If only I had a few more minutes... Most people experience this type of feeling when waking from a good dream. To me, it’s all the more powerful. I control my dreams. I choose the scenery, the people, and anything you could imagine. If I want to fly, so be it. Hell, If I want to live inside a Van Gogh painting, I will. I love the feeling, the control, and the beauty, but most of all the peace. Once I close my eyes there are no limits, deaths, accidents, or mishaps. In fact, quite the contrary. My Mother, Father, and Brother all perished in a car accident that left me in a coma for two years. Before the coma, life was anything but peaceful. My father, the typical abusive drunk, and my mother, what a weak woman she was, were in a constant battle. My brother and I were often left to fend for ourselves. It may sound sinister, but that crash may have been the best thing to ever happen to me. While in my deepest, comatose slumber, I recreated my family. I imagined my mother to be strong and loving, and my father a powerful and kind man. I lived like this for two years, the most peaceful years of my life. It was when I awoke that the true nightmare began. The wonderful family I had grown accustomed to disappeared and were replaced. I traveled to many homes, each with problems of their own. I battled through a vicious cycle of foster homes, some more dysfunctional than my original. Who could live up to the expectations of a dream? Group homes became my guide to adulthood. Here I am 22, and haven’t amounted to anything. I am alone in this institution. My every waking hour is spent waiting to go back to sleep. They say I have lost touch with reality. They are blind, they lack the ability to see what I see. I tried for years to get back to the alternate universe. Eventually returning only to find I was on limited time. Every day the same blasted sun wakes me, reminding me that this nightmare is my reality. This world I never asked to be part of. A world filled with hate and greed. Living in my own creations is far more appealing. I long for the beautiful world without pain or suffering. I crave the ability to walk alongside those forgotten. This is my world, and I won’t be leaving here again. The medicine I have secretly stockpiled for weeks will now deliver me to the land in which I am free! I’m slowly drifting, eyes are closing, the state of lucidity has come upon me once more. This nightly occurrence which I have no control, yet more control than most will ever know. This world I create of my own accord, living vividly in the creations of those before. The pieces I choose to take, are that which is taken for granted every day, To once again see my mother’s face, to be held and told it will all be okay.