to a young child, a

girl like me when i was young

daydream is imagining me

grabbing a plastic sword glowing with florescent light, killing whatever monsters there are

with pointed claws and blood-leaking jaws

lurking in the dark

is picturing myself in armors holding antique yellow-papered maps for guidance

and hence the journey begins

there’s no heroine in my childhood

only Heroes saving the girl locked in a castle or seized by a dragon

hence i wish to become the first heroine, to prove its sheer possibility, to save myself

when needed

Then

One night, I dreamt

A killer coming into my primary school with a

Real

Knife

My vision blurred, foggy particles bouncing up and down in the air

The world turning upside down

Ponds and ponds of blood and high-pitched screams and walls

Stained

and i woke up, sweats draining my clothes wet

and i try to

in my mind

bring back my sword, put on my armor, but

i kept waking up, gulping, face deadly white, body stiff

burying my face deep in the pillow, as if i’m tossed into a vast depth of water,

deep, drowning, and, suffocating, alone

waiting to be saved

Why would my daydream of exerting violence become my nightmare of receiving violence

Why would my heroism fail me

Is daydream a source of nightmare, and nightmare

A magnification of daydream

And reality

i can’t tell

but on the next day, i, would again

daydreaming myself

picking up the sword and starting a new journey.