(it’s all just a dream)
As the poets like to say, I was born with half of my soul. Most people are, connected only by a thin,
red string by our ankles. When people are eighteen, they follow that red trail, to find their other half.
I have been following mine all my life. The end keeps stretching.
(the ghost of your fingers over my skin)
Everybody seems to find someone. I find no one.
I date. We all do, those of us that don’t find the rest of our souls early on. Boys and girls, men and
women. Freckled alabaster and smooth tan, kisses peppered in the dip of the collar bone.
Yet the hollow only grows.
(the remnants of you linger beyond my grasp)
I dream.
It’s a long dream, scattered over the years. I dream of dark brown eyes like rich soil, I dream of
slender hands that fit perfectly on my hips, and I dream of lips that taste like sugar and torturous
longing. I think I’m dreaming of my soul.
But as they all like to say, it’s all just a dream…
You don’t dream of your soul. You follow the thread. That is the only way.
(it seems like you’re running just past the corner)
A name grows on the tip of my tongue. But no matter how I try, I always seem to miss a few
syllables.
I’m always dreaming. It’s like I’m waltzing in an unending dream of my own creation. Yet the thread
still does not stop. They still think I am in denial, still think this is my subconscious crying. It’s all just
a dream, they like to say.
Yet I always awake, cheeks pooled in tears, with the phantom feeling of your fingers through my hair
and your warm skin pressed against mine.
(embraces like wind, smiles like shadows)
I remember a promise. Or I dream of one. There doesn’t seem to be a difference.
Fingers interlock. There’s something vaguely romantic about that word, as if we are locking each
other together, inseparable. Not unlike the red strings that connect us. Your whispering breath
brushes against the skin of my ear.
There’s a long river, white and silvery.
There’s a pair of scissors, sharp and unforgiving.
And there’s a scream. Something happens. I can’t remember what. That’s because it’s all just a
dream, they say. I cannot remember what did not happen.
(the breeze mocks me with a poor mimicry of your touch)
The thread ended today.
I see the red trail to a pitiful end. It’s broken and torn.
(I hear your voice in the shifting ocean waves)
I keep walking.
I have lost something, I think, as I trod the direction of the thread. A cemetery grows around me,
crumbling gravestones and wilting flowers framing my pathway. As the poets love to say, I’ve lost
half of my soul. I think…
The thought is too hard to name. I don’t.
So I keep walking. Until I stop. And there is the red thread. It begins broken and torn. It ends
underground, buried deep in soil covered by a blanket of grass. I fall to my knees, staring with
growing forlorn at the old gravestone.
There is the name I’ve been looking for.
“Amelia.” It fits in my mouth perfectly, rolls off my tongue like I’ve been saying it all my life. And,
perhaps, in a way, I have.
I wonder, Amelia, what your favourite colour was. Did you love the crisp coldness of winter, or the
warm breezes of summer? Did you look for me too, Amelia? Now I know her name, I can’t stop
saying it. Amelia, Amelia, Amelia. How is it that you can lose something before you find it?
My fingers hover over the engraved name.
I suppose it was all just a dream, then.
As I sit against the tombstone, I squeeze my eyes shut against the world, the stupidly bright sky and
the sun that would not stop mocking me. You had brown eyes, Amelia. Or did you? I don’t know
anything anymore. I don’t even know if souls are real.
It’s lonely.
I’ve lost something today and yet, curiously, I’ve also found something.
(what beautiful lies I’ve been fed)
The world ticks on without me.
There is a profound difference between being alone and being lonely. Those that are alone are not
necessarily lonely and those that are lonely do not always mean to be alone. I find myself to both:
alone and lonely.
How do you comprehend your soul to be a dream? How is the thing that has fuelled you with
burning passion meant to be nothing but imagination? How can a red thread, so obviously real,
possibly become fake?
I don’t know. It seems I don’t know anything.
Only the crumbling gravestone and the faded name carved upon it is real. Amelia. Or maybe even
that is false. Maybe this is a dream too.
Amelia.
Are you a dream?
评论
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多大的孩子？ 写得这么好
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这么有才华的孩子是怎么培养的？请来个经验介绍贴！
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good
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楼主，你家娃多大。 我家娃写作是硬伤，能传授下经验吗？ 感激不尽。
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求经验+1，感谢
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几年级的作文？
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写得真好！
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小学生作文？
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8年级啦，14周岁了
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我们在她二年级前就是放养，三年级时陪她看了哈利波特的电影，看她喜欢就买来书给她看，然后就喜欢上了哈利波特，全套看了最少七八遍吧，成了哈利波特通，每周坚持看十几本小说，五年级后开始喜欢写作，目前写了二三十万字了。不喜欢上培训班，上过一年就坚决不肯去了，各科成绩a吧，反正也不突出，我们基本不管她学习，目前类似悉尼中学的精英班。
一路走来，我觉得最重要的是让孩子先爱上看书。
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我们在她二年级前就是放养，三年级时陪她看了哈利波特的电影，看她喜欢就买来书给她看，然后就喜欢上了哈利波特，全套看了最少七八遍吧，成了哈利波特通，每周坚持看十几本小说，五年级后开始喜欢写作，目前写了二三十万字了。不喜欢上培训班，上过一年就坚决不肯去了，各科成绩a吧，反正也不突出，我们基本不管她学习，目前类似悉尼中学的精英班，现在八年级了，准备明年考QA的Kevin Grove校区。
一路走来，我觉得最重要的是让她爱上看书。
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八年级写的蛮有深度的呢。
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感谢分享！
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最重要的是一本小说要反复看，看熟看烂，我看我女儿就是这样，很多小说都是看了很多遍的。
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想问下，哪里参加吗？谢谢
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嗯，好的， 我娃八岁，但是只喜欢看皮卡丘，minecraft这种，买了整套的哈利波特，他都没摸一下， 哈哈哈哈哈
桑心
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一个文艺少女诞生了
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这个是学校组织的比赛哦
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一开始你可以引导啊，比如跟他讨论一下故事的人物情节，或者给点奖励，慢慢就上道了。
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感谢分享
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感谢分享
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哈哈哈哈，主要我也对哈利波特不感冒，也没看过书。哈哈哈哈
我看好多带娃学钢琴的，自己给整会了。还是不够上心啊
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