Spoken Sunday - Dreams

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It is Saturday night in the city. It is warm, and my window is open, letting in a cool breeze. I know this is through no kindness towards me; Mother has left the window open so that I may hear the world outside. This is to punish me for my wickedness. I am unsure as to the nature of my most recent transgression but she assures me it was heinous indeed. I am to sit here and listen to the sounds of young people like myself enjoying the evening delights of the city. There is a restaurant on the other side of the plaza. I hear glasses chinking, cutlery against plates, laughter. The words are indistinct but I hear stories being told. People guffaw as their companions reach their punchlines. I fill in the blanks, and smile. These people must lead such interesting, rich lives, out there in the city. Out there...

I stand on my bed and peer through the window high in the wall. I can see little, but my imagination paints me a picture. Groups of friends will be huddled around tables, sharing stories while waiters bustle between them. They will be carrying platters of steaming food, the dishes a riot of colour and smells as people sample cuisines both exotic and local. The air will be thick with bonhomie and warmth.

I turn away from the window, back to my bare little room. Mother took my books to punish me for forgetting to say grace. She took my telescope when I forgot to bless her after she sneezed. She still allows me paper and pencils to write or draw, but she takes what I produce. She tells me my talents are not my talents, they are gifts from God, so my art must return to Him. I do not understand this, but I do not tell her so in case she takes the paper away too.

I lie down on my bed, and think about the gift I have been given by the Universe. It gave me sleep, and the chance to dream. My eyes close, and I melt into the arms of Morpheus, and he takes me to a world without prisons, where I can run free. My dreams know no punishments, or rules. God has no jurisdiction in my dreams.