Blindly Happy

She ran away in her sleep and dreamed of paradise

The lyrics play over in my head like a broken cassette. Coldplay certainly understands the needs of their audience; A paradise far away from this messy, mad world would be great. I imagine grand waterfalls next to blooming pink flowers that smell more extravagant than any 6 dollar perfume and butterflies of all patterns and colors. A paradise that doesn't exist, but that I could dream of wishing for.

I gaze at my ceiling - usually plain whitewash and nothing to admire - that is now a black canvas filled with bright constellations and a thousand stars. An illusion? Yes. But it’s still pretty. Though I am an atheist, I still want things that aren’t easily bought. My first wish is always to be rich, very rich. Wealth so strong that I bathe in liquid gold and my worries can be flushed down the toilet along with a few bills. After that, I ask for a love so passionate and pure that each day is found with excitement and purpose to care for the future someone who owns my heart. Then comes beauty, fame, and happiness, of course, happiness is obvious. 

The pillows my head is propped up on lightly tickle my nose and I sneeze loudly, sending my body upright. For a second, I listen without reason to the low humming of my aquarium. It doesn't carry the same ring as a marvelous turquoise waterfall but if I visualize very hard... no. It doesn't.

Having finished with wishing on the fate of fake stars, I move to switch the cheap star projector off and pull back the pink curtains of my small oval window. Light spills in, attaching itself to my walls, and despite it being the hour of dinner for most tourists, I see people's shoes walking in all directions. Sometimes I watch them from the view of my basement. Mostly on Tuesdays, around 6:35, when the summer heat is still heavy but the sky begins its beautiful pastel descent. Tired of boredom, I decide to go out and see it for myself.

Kayama - my half-sister - is making scrambled eggs in the kitchen, her soul music sending trembles into the tiled floor as I walk down the hallway. She cooks well but leaves the pans looking like they have been through a war. Especially when she’s in a dancing mood.

"Orange please," I ask her, my elbows resting on the cold marble counter. 

Without letting go of her spatula, she bends over a fruit pile, shakes her hips with the rhythm of the song, and picks one out, tossing it over so far I have to skip a beat to catch it. 

Dad had taught me baseball, so I got it. Before I leave I raise an eyebrow at her and grab my old roller skates from the cupboard.

It’s hot out, even though September is almost greeting October's chill. Thankfully there's a slight breeze as I skate North, and it helps me to zoom past onlookers. There’s a blues band that plays next to a nail salon. The trumpet has a solo for which I skid to a halt to listen, and when they're done people applaud, but no one gives a tip. The musicians still smile.

Finding a concrete bench without any white seagull waste, I sit down, take my helmet off, and peel the orange. As I bite into the first piece, the juice tastes sweet and plentiful in contrast to the plain, microwaved food I normally eat. There’s a t.v store just across from me. It’s broadcasting the news on five different screens. Images of a girl covered in dust and blood flash on, and I swallow hard. My eyes automatically dart away for a second, not wanting to confront another suffering. The reporter on scene interviews the girl in the midst of a camp. She smiles throughout the whole two minutes. It appears almost convincing. There is no sound but I read the subtext that lists: “parentless and dehydrated, 13-year-old Maria holds on for hope”. My god, only two years younger than me. In a split second, the screen changes back to the news station, and they talk about the weather. 

Spitting out a seed from the last orange slice, I overhear a conversation between two older women sitting on the bench to my right. They're joking about their hair loss from chemo and recounting memories from another friend who apparently is absent from the world. Of course, they also smile. 

* * *

After sunset, my toes feel tight in the pocket of my roller skates, so I take them off and walk barefoot on the sand. Small waves caress my feet as they come into shore colliding over rocks, and wash away like a hand gripping for support and falling back. Somehow, along with the soothing sensation of the ocean, the air is crisper, and the stars are finally visible ahead. They hover like a blanket, mocking me for how small and irrelevant I am, yet showing how there’s still so much to discover about existing in the universe.

With another gust of wind, goosebumps draw along the skin of my forearms, not because it’s cold but because there’s a man standing next to me. Paranoia sets in and my muscles tense up defensively. ‘how did he sneak past without me hearing him’?

Trying to remember all the mandatory self-defense lessons that I usually had skipped at school, I feel for the pepper spray can in my handbag (Just in case). I’d seen all the things there are to see on the news about rapists and human trafficking. But this man doesn’t seem like he intends any harm. On the contrary, I feel a sort of invisible bond. He stretches his arms out above his head and yawns. 

“Hi,” he says curtly, dropping his arms limply to his sides. 

“Hello?”

“Hello” 

His voice is raspy and refreshing. He seems to be familiar, but I know I haven’t ever met him before. As if sensing my skeptical contemplation, he moves to gently hold my pinkie; A sign of patience for permission to hold the whole hand. I confirm my ease by slipping the rest of my fingers through his and he squeezes my palm. I have a temptation to do it back with the shiver of warmth that passes down my spine. I wouldn’t believe myself to ever let a stranger do an intimate gesture if they were truly a stranger.

Suddenly overcome with unexplainable fatigue, I lay my head on his shoulder and my eyelids blink sleepily.

A few minutes pass by until I awaken to his eyes widening in glory and hurriedly telling me to look up. A star is falling.

“Make a wish,” he tells me.

So I close my eyes, but just as quickly as I blink, I open them again with a smiling frown.

“Did you make one?” he asks, mirroring my expression.

I glance at him, and with a sigh of hesitant relief, I shake my head. 

Paradise, every time she closed her eyes.