We all like to write stories for ourselves. A dream in which
we’re somebody else. One and the same; A Marilyn, a songbird with a mellifluous
voice, the pen that inspired a generation of actors; I have been them all. Now,
I peer around my heavy curtain to realise I have stayed awake until just before
sunrise. But all of the world, apart from the rabbits in their dewy labyrinth,
are asleep. It wasn’t my goal to stay up until tomorrow, but as I brush back
the curtain, it feels as though it should have been – like this was the best
idea I’ve had for months. To not fall asleep, unexpectedly, and immerse myself
in a bed of stories…
I look over the rim
of my decadent glass; I see myself in the mirror. And as Eva sings of sunburnt
hands I feel like I’m the heart-breaker. I am the girl shaped like a vase in a
sequined dress, with a lunar complexion; the ‘most famous woman in the world’. But
the vision disperses like confetti at an ill-timed wedding, and yet, most of me
still wants the dream to be true. And a part of me believes it.
On returning to my ruffled bed, wearing my striped duvet
like a cape, I hope that I will dream of sweet nothings in my sleep, and I
begin a silent argument to decide whether I remain awake until the sun soaks my
irises, or not.
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