I read, and read, and reread what I wrote for what I think is the 100th time.

“Not good enough!” I shout.

I throw away all my papers from the desk. The papers flutter down together, reminding me of the sound of birds wings that flutter, bringing me back to my hometown one summer evening.

Home, I thought

That’s why I ended up here in the first place. In this room which I wouldn’t even consider more than an airtight box, but now, my office. Clinging on to hope that one day, just some day, my stories that I write on these papers come to life.  A story that I can bring back home with a smile.

Home. A word that represents peace, calmness, and brings you that cozy feeling nowhere else can ever bring, but instead, brings out all my insecurities, knowing very well that I don’t deserve to go back there. Not now. Not yet.

I feel tired, burnt out, too drained out to write anything anymore.

I pick up my coffee cup, going to get my 9th refill of the night when I hear a sound at my window. An eerie, ghoul sound, that made me get goosebumps. But deep down, I knew that the sound was familiar, somewhat close to my heart.

Gingerly, I walk towards the window.  As I approached my window, I see a figure, staring back at me. He is a red head, with fire in his blue eyes staring right into my soul. His skin was slightly tanned, as though he came right after basking under the sun. He was playing with a stray black cat, patting it, hugging it.  

He was me, my younger self.

The cat scratched him and he was injured. He held his injured knee and cried  desperately, waiting for someone to help him.

I stare in awe as another lady gently comes and comforts him. She was wearing a beautiful beige evening dress. She is mamma, my beautiful, 22  year old mamma.

She bends down and says “Stand up, Elijah. Stand up, “

And so I did. I stopped crying, held mamma’s  hand, and stood up. I was in pain, but I felt brave. I felt unstoppable.

Then, the boy disappeared, and so did the stray black cat.

Another boy appears. He had the same complexion, the same ginger hair and blue eyes but this time, was in his room instead. He had posters of famous pianists pasted all over his room.

He was writing on his desk, a smile plastered across his face. A real, genuine, lopsided smile. It was me. The teenage me.

His mother enters the room again, gently strokes his hair and gives him a kiss on his forehead. She turns to him and says, “Never ever give up on yourself. Remember, your time will come, “ . She hugs him tightly as he gently lies down on her chest, both their heads tilted towards each other.

Then, he disappeared too.

A frail old lady appears. She is sitting on her rocking chair outside her house, enjoying her beautiful garden scenery. She looks familiar. She is mamma, but she is old, and looks sick. Yet, she seems to be enjoying the last moments that’s left for her.

She seems to be waiting for someone. Then, a car pulls in. A tall man with a black suit dashed out of the car, a book in his arms. It is me, a new me. A proud me.

I run towards mamma. I place my book in her worn out hands and say “Mamma, this is for you. I did it, I really did, “

She looks at me and smiles and says “I always knew you would,” and passes away, peacefully, still with a smile on her face.

I fall down and start crying, and as I rub my tears away, I realize I’m at my desk.

I dreamed, It was all a dream.

I wake up and quickly pick up my pen, I start writing again, the fire that I saw in the blue eyes of my younger self now burning  inside me, greater than ever.  

Then, I felt a gentle brush at my leg.  I look downwards,  only to see, the stray black cat, under my desk.