What You Mean To Me

           As I lay awake in my bed I feel sleep slipping through my fingertips. It’s still night, if the illuminated moon was anything to go by. Away is the foolhardy dream that my unconscious mind had conjured in the realms of sleep. My small body rests between the sheets, disarranged and warm, but not yet compelled to welcome my dream back again. It had been a strange one again tonight; I think my parents are beginning to worry about me. At first they just dismissed them as my active, creative mind at work, soon they began to go in detail and they now thought that there was indeed something strange about me. And I was alright with that. My dreams were filled with wonders and monsters that they apparently didn’t want to hear about – again, that was alright.

           As long as they didn’t stop me from dreaming.

           Aimlessly, my young eyes drift around my small room and take in the sight.

           Posters attached to the walls, drawings masterpieces created by my professional hand in only the highest quality crayons, and stuffed animals skewed this way and that. A pale, baby blue is the dominating colour of my room and it reeks of childhood. My parent’s still didn’t seem to understand that within my 9 year old body lay a mature woman waiting to make herself known. One that preferred bunny rabbits to any other animal out there and still occasionally forgot how to tie her shoes, but I digress.

The light pitter patter of feet alerted me that my feline companion was restlessly making herself known to me. She jumped onto my excessively comfortable bed and crawled into my waiting lap, like it was her throne and me nothing more than a good piece of furniture. Clutching her to me tightly, ignoring the odd mix of a growl and choke that came from her fuzzy mouth, I began to speak.

         “Sapphire, do you want a midnight snack?” The snarky, little cat meowed loudly in agreement and wriggled against my hold.

          Giggling quietly, as my parents were just down the hall, I gathered my moody Siamese in my small arms and went to open my door. I didn’t notice it at first but there seemed to be a fresh scent spinning through the air around my room. Like the seawater I had smelled from that one family trip to the beach last year. I could also remember the taste of bitter sand on my tongue after I had tripped. Yes, my room was beginning to seem like that and there was a haze filling the enclosed space and was beginning to take my attention to my innocent door illuminated by a strange light from outside. Strange, peculiar, bizarre and extraordinary – I was compelled forwards and opened the door.

          Jaw dropping and extremely picturesque my eyes filled to the brim with childish tears of happiness as once again I dived deeply into my imagination.

          A world like no other entranced my line of vision. It was the mythical palace of dreams that I had been quietly and carefully weaving at night, alone in my bed. String upon, string fell into place so completely now creating a silken world a bright azure in shade. In the ‘air’ there were gatherings of tropical fish that came in sizes both significantly smaller and enormously bigger than I. A cluster swam past my dainty form and torpedoed their way upwards into a seemingly never ending glow of white that bled into the water air around me. They sparkled and swished their transparent tails with enthusiasm. There was strange rocks protruding from the ground and I could faintly remember my father once telling me that they were called coral. But they weren’t stationary; they were moving and swaying with the breeze. Dyed a peachy pink in colour, they glowed brightly in an already bright world.

          There was only one thing that I was focussed on at the moment though. I had seen all of these things already in my dreams – I had created them. There was someone here; someone that helped me build it all and remained a friendly mentor in my creative journey.

           A large coral formation entered my line of sight and I saw what looked to be a burgundy cape flapping in the gentle waft of warm air.

          “Aalto!” I cried in delight and ran over as fast as my small legs could carry me. The figure on the rocks was in reality an old, withered man with a warm smile and twinkle in his eye. He turned on his perch and extended his tanned arms to me as I scrambled to get on the coral with him. The coral began to move and tickled at my bare feet as I was gently picked up and placed next to a man that had been more of a grandfather to me than my real one. Tugging me closer to him, he extended his cloak over my head and laid a heavy, but comforting hand on my head and ruffled my hair.

           “You seem energetic tonight,” he said, not minding in the least. I smiled widely at his elderly face and could feel my heart get a bit lighter.

         “Yup! I get to see you, right Aalto? I like the blue fish you made.” His grin still retained a youthful quality.

         “Made them just for you, sweet-pea. I thought that your orange ones needed some company. Let’s see – how about tomorrow night we try to make some starfish? Big ones, reaaaallly big ones.” He chuckled heartily as I began to jump up and down with excitement.

          We shared this world together. I wandered into this subconscious part of my mind by accident one day and have never found a reason to leave. It had been a barren, white canvas before Aalto had appeared one day and showed me how to imagine and express my thoughts to create what this paradise had become. He was the one that taught me how to create, how to dream in vivid colours that I hadn’t even imagined before. He showed me the way to mould my world and the most important lesson he gave me was that this was all okay.

          He taught me to cherish my imagination, my thoughts and dreams. Never listen to what others say about you in a negative way – look at the positives in life and be content with them. Create as you breathe and live while you create.

           The memories of Aalto may have begun to fade from my mind and as I look back to those days I begin to wonder if those were actual memories, or maybe something my productive mind had come up with on a whim. I’d like to believe that he was there and that he wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, but even as I wither in age as he once did I cannot explain or understand what had happened those days. Each day was passed frivolously and some days in my teenage years were spent in heated one-sided arguments about my future.

         I had put my foot down and demanded that my imagination be given free rein to grow and flourish; turning to arts instead of athletics. Creative writing instead of baseball matches. Dreaming with my eyes open instead of tightly shut.

       As I will tell grandchildren in my growing age; never lose what makes you a child at heart and retain that special spark that makes you, you. You are creative, imaginative and original – take the world clasped tightly in your first and mold it into a place full of wonder.

    
       Aalto you had taught me many lessons – It’s my turn to pass them on.

-Manpreet