Dream Journal, October 2011
It was dark. It seemed that my eyes were closed. When I forced myself to move, I couldn't - not even a single twitch. All my senses were working, though. I can smell something like how new covers on a bed smelled like. I can feel the softness against my back. There were murmurs around me, and I thought I heard someone sob.
Still, I couldn't move my muscles or even force a single croak. I was getting desperate but there was nothing I could do at that point.
It felt like eternity when I finally managed to open my eyes, and I was suddenly standing in front of my grandparents' old house. There were many people hanging around the balcony: my cousins, my aunts and uncles, neighbors... my family.
One of my cousins was crying while another consoles her. I walked towards where they were sat and asked them what the problem was. What was happening? Neither answered. Neither even heeded me.
No matter how many people I approached, no one would look at me, let alone talk to me. I was getting scared. I can literally hear the loud thumping of heartbeat against my ears. I was starting to cry... maybe harder than my cousins did.
Why won't anyone notice me?
I ended up getting inside the house and was surprised to know there was an ongoing wake. There were white flowers everywhere, lamps lit with yellow lightbulbs, a cross... and a white casket. Then there was a picture of me. In the picture, I wasn't smiling. I was just looking through the camera lenses.
I panicked. Was I dead? Did I just visit my own wake? Where the cries for me?
I tried shouting, but at that point, I can no longer produce a sound. It was getting frustrating. I sobbed really hard I couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes, but when I opened them, I was lying on my back in an enclosed space.
I couldn't move again, but I could see what was happening around me.
The sounds of crying were getting louder and louder and more heartbreaking and I wanted to cry, too, because I felt like I would choke if I wouldn't. But I couldn't!
Sounds of shovel digging into earth started overpowering the wails and rang endlessly in my ears. I was suddenly covered in dirt... then more dirt... then more. On my legs. On my tummy. On my neck. On my face. So much earth, I couldn't breathe.
When I came to again, I was at home. It was sunset, but I couldn't read the time. My favorite wallclock from when I was a kid - one that had pendulum and would sing every time the minute hand struck twelve - was alive and hanging where it usually did when I was young. It wasn't working.
It was silent in the house. I called out for my mother, then my father, then my sister. I didn't receive any response. When I went out, there was a huge puddle - almost like a tiny pond - at our front yard. To my left, which was where my grandfather's house was, stood my grandmother. She passed away when I was eleven.
Beside her was her best friend then, a grandma who used to sit me and my cousins when we were young. But she had passed away years before, too. I was getting scared because why were they there? They were dead.
I ran towards the front yard and looked at my neighbors' houses. It was eerily silent, and I could have sworn I saw someone who had supposedly passed away, too. My grandmother's best friend approached me and told me to look into the huge puddle that formed at the center of our front yard.
Although scared, I did. It was like a television that showed a silent movie. I was watching my friends, my cousins, my parents. They were laughing at something. They were enjoying something. They were eating on a plate full of red spaghetti.
I shouted at them, hoping maybe they would hear me even when I couldn't hear them. They didn't even flinch. They went on with their lives, happy.
I cried so hard again - like my life depended on it - and asked my grandma, almost frustratingly, if I could go down there. She said I couldn't. I asked why. She and her best friend didn't even bother to answer.
So I continued crying my heart out and watching my family and friends through the puddle. It didn't matter that I couldn't hear their voices. I just wanted to see them.
I wouldn't leave my spot, when another old woman approached me and offered me food. She said I hadn't been eating and it would be very bad. I didn't bother. I asked the woman if this kind of despair had been what they felt like the first time.
She said yes. They just got used to it. At least her loved ones were happy. It wouldn't matter that they forgot her.
I was still sad and heartbroken. They would be happy. That was what mattered the most.
It was then that I thought that they would move on and forget about me, and in the end, I would be OK.
My grandmother was calling my name later on. I couldn't find her, but I felt like she was just a few feet a way.
Then I woke up.
