text: His eyes slowly fluttered. They flinched, closed shut again, but fought to remain open. The eyelids were heavy as sleep overweighed on them, like little bricks forcing them shut. It was dark and cold, the night’s void of any warmth. He didn’t shiver, but he couldn’t move. Lukewarm liquid, like damp grass, grazed his numb fingers, and the night’s breeze, right under the full moon, playfully slapped his face. Usually, these nights, despite of their coldness, pumps warmth in his heart. When he was young, he gathered around the fire with his parents, grandparents, neighbors, and friends for a weenie roast. He longed for that night under the starry night when his grandfather starts the camping party with, “Once upon a time...” He groaned, his breath hitched. He’s in pain, and he wants to cry. Usually, such a pain would force a scream, but his voice was dry. He recalled once falling down the stairs after running off from the school. And because of his rush, he fell down, broke a leg. He’d never felt such a pain before, so he cried and was carried to the hospital where he hugged his mom. He allowed himself, his younger self such a treat, to be spoiled by his mom’s warmth. Unfortunately, that warmth dissipated today. Only the coldness of the night wrapped him like a burrito. His vocal cords were frozen, and his veins flinched in pain. “You’re always clumsy,” his mom once said, “You never look over the bridge of your nose!” He looked down at his shoes, a huge pout masked his face. Whenever his mom yells at him, whenever he does something bad, he feels all the negative emotions overflowing in his eyes, forming embarrassing rivers that barely holds back in the sockets of his eyes. Slime drools from his nose, so he sniffles because it’s embarrassing. And in the end, he gets a cheek pinch from his mom, who won’t seem to be mad anymore every time that happens. But that doesn’t mean he’s not clumsy if his mom forgave him every single time. He always tripped by everything, even his shadow. He exhaustedly smiled; it was bitter. His smile explained the lifeless situation he’s been in because of his clumsiness, only lulled by the bright memories of his younger self. Although he’s an adult who has children, he’s still as clumsy as before. He moaned when he shifted... What happened to his children? To his wife? Where are they? He forced his pupils to tour around the vacuum to find his childhood friend who had turned to be his wife, the one who held his children. He couldn’t spot that smooth blond hair he always sifted through, the one he threw a bucket of water at when they were in elementary school. He couldn’t spot those glassy blue eyes, the ones he once goofily said, “They look like magical orbs,” making his younger self wife blush. He couldn’t find her, only strolling in his memories, in his dreams. He closed his eyes and touched the gash where his lukewarm liquid, he knew as blood, seeped. Something like a film rolled all his lifetime events before his mind’s eye. They were mostly the ones where he was extremely happy... He recalled himself when he first discovered his love for art. He cried too much to get his first easel for kids. He did chores, became a good kid, and washed his dad’s car every morning until he got it. He bickered with his parents for stopping that day, however, it was such a good memory to reminisce. Back then, he went to his best friend, his wife, to tell her about his parents’ gift. She was flabbergasted to know about his interests; it turned out, she likes crafts. It was one step closer to her heart before he could camp in there forever. They crafted art, lots of art. From their fashion clothes, to their dream home. She wanted that big house with a pool and a gym, but he wanted a blonde wife, specifically with magical blue orbs, and two children in a small and cozy apartment. When she laughed at him, he laughed with her, but he said, “I’m serious. A home sweet home is hardly a big Villa.” She slowly stopped giggling, looked at him, probably thinking. “A home sweet home is being happy with family,” she replied, and he nodded. Happiness to them was to be engulfed by warmth. Now, that warmth of his mom, of his family and wife, dissipated. It left him alone in a dark pool of blood because of such a clumsy mistake that led to a car accident. He wondered if his wife’s cold too; he wondered if her body’s lying far or just closely enough to his. His children had their seat belts on, so they might be stuck in the car. He wondered if he’s going to be born again, if will he have the same life as this. Was he good enough to be lucky twice? He wondered if he’ll be able to ever fly the red kite with his brother, or to eat barbeque with his family. He wondered if he’ll go back to the same school, meet his wife again and softly bully her into loving him, or not? He wondered if he’ll face the same pain of breaking his leg, or he’ll get a good omen of “Break a leg in there,” when his gallery finally sees the light of life, like he always dreamt. Life doesn’t have enough answers to a lot of questions, but humans live in the hopes of finding the answers of what confuses them the most. They keep fighting like he is now to make sure he’s the only one dying, not his memories with his family and friend. He didn’t want to leave. However, when his younger self showed up inside his dreams, a red kite in hand, he couldn’t miss the fun, so he went with him...