I wake up every morning at seven, pulled out of a different dream.
Dreams that aren't real, yet somehow, while I'm inside them, I live more than I ever do here.
They are filled with colours, fantasies, places that don't exist, and somehow, I do exist there.
Then my mother calls my name.
And suddenly, I fall back into reality.
My reality is cruel.
There is no colour in it anymore.
Only blue and grey.
I wake up carrying fragments of my dreams with me, trying to hold on to them for a few seconds longer, wishing I could go back.
Then I get up and brush my teeth.
And there I am, staring at my reflection.
My face looks pale, almost yellow, as if some invisible demon has sucked half of the life out of me while I slept.
My eyes are swollen.
The dark circles beneath them seem deeper every morning.
Then I go to the bathroom to shower.
I see the blue bruises on my leg and shoulder.
Maybe I bumped into something. I'm clumsy like that.
But I hate looking at them.
They make me feel fragile.
Weak.
As if even my own body is reminding me that something is wrong.
I wash myself as though I could peel away my skin and become someone else.
I hate this body sometimes.
The bloating.
The bruises.
The stretch marks.
The rashes scattered across my skin.
The scars on my left hand.
Every little thing feels like another reason to dislike the person staring back at me.
Even my hair falling between my fingers while I wash it makes me sad.
I come out, get dressed, and wait for breakfast.
There is nothing.
So I take my bag and leave.
No one asks when I'll be back.
No one asks how many classes I have.
No one asks me to come home early.
Maybe they're more peaceful when I'm gone.
A little distance from home, I reach the bus stop.
And I wait.
While waiting, I watch the world pass in front of me.
Rich.
Poor.
Young.
Old.
Children.
Workers.
Employers.
People carrying their whole lives in bags.
People carrying their lives inside expensive cars.
I watch children walking happily into school, still untouched by the bitterness that may be waiting for them somewhere ahead.
I watch labourers rushing to work.
Employees rushing to their offices.
Employers rushing toward their futures.
Everyone seems to be running toward something.
Maybe that's what money does to people.
It makes them desperate for a future they aren't even sure they'll live long enough to see.
College buses pass.
School buses pass.
The whole world keeps moving.
And I stand still.
Finally, my bus arrives.
I stand there struggling with the gate.
It's been two weeks.
Two weeks, and I still can't open something as simple as a bus gate.
The driver scolds me every time.
"You can't even do this properly?"
I pretend not to care.
I let his words fall somewhere behind me, somewhere I don't have to listen.
I get inside.
Students.
Teachers.
Eyes.
So many eyes.
Sometimes it feels like they're piercing straight through me, searching for every little thing that is wrong.
I quickly find an empty seat and sit down.
I just want to disappear into it.
I keep hoping the bus will reach the university faster.
When it finally does, I step down and take a breath.
I tell myself,
Maybe today will be different.
Maybe today will be a good day.
I wish myself luck.
Then I walk.
Three hundred metres.
That's all.
Three hundred metres until I reach my building.
And then another ordinary day begins.
Classes.
Conversations.
The canteen.
Laughter.
Walking from one campus to another.
People around me.
People talking to me.
People sitting beside me.
And yet, somehow, there is still this empty space inside my chest.
A hollow place where something used to live.
I don't know when my life became so colourless.
I keep reaching for colour.
But every time I think I've found some,
it fades.
By evening, I return home.
And somehow, I don't even want to.
Because there is no one waiting for me.
No one wondering where I've been.
No one waiting to hear about my day.
So I enter quietly.
Like I was never really gone.
Night comes.
I lie awake.
I try to sleep.
Eventually, I do.
And then morning comes again.
Seven o'clock.
Another dream.
Another world.
Another life.
And then my mother's voice pulls me back.
Reality.
Blue.
Grey.
Empty.
Sometimes I wish I could stay asleep forever.
Not because I love sleeping,
but because somewhere inside those dreams,
I am alive.
I am colourful.
I am wanted.
And for a little while,
I feel like I am somewhere I belong.
