A Daydreamer on a Whim

I’ve been imagining myself adrift in the ocean lately. It isn’t exactly dark, but the sky is grey, adorned with playful thunder. The rain seems to beckon me to come undone, while the wind tousles my hair like an unskilled hairdresser. They say “like calls to like”—if I’m holding on to the sea stack for dear life, does that mean I’m as rigid as a rock?

I’m not entirely sure about where to head. All around me is water, and I can’t tell north from south. Misleading signs have fooled me more than once. I don’t trust my instincts now, but I stay alert for hints of a hurricane. They say it’s best to trust your gut—if mine tells me to swim and stay put, which should I follow?

The water is quieter now, giving the stage for the rain to fall. As I watch it intensify, I imagine a small rowboat passing by. Its lantern casts a shadow, following its every motion, unconcerned by the storm. They say I’m a loner—while that’s not true, I conform to the idea and hide behind the stack. Coldness washes over me like never before. I see the boat drifting slowly beside me, not noticing a thing. I don’t want my presence in their mind to fade into oblivion, but if they don’t even know me, what is there to fade away?

Even the best daydreamer wouldn’t know the answer. Whenever the story nearly reaches its peak, I abruptly stop the train of thought. Is this crazy, or am I no different than a TV show director who stops their program mid-season to dodge the possibility of going downhill? The water is gone now. The wind is nothing but a gentle breeze. The sulfur scent of the ocean fades as I smell a newly replaced air freshener. I see nothing left of the sea stack except for the lingering salty taste on my tongue—the intangible evidence.

My head is quieter now, giving me enough room to explore the world. As I see it clearer, I imagine a taxi passing by. Its neon sign brims with dim lighting in the dark alley, the only spark comes from the sporadic flicker of the street lamps. I signal for the taxi and it stops. I enter the backseat, followed by a familiar presence behind me. With my left hand being squeezed, everything feels so real. I don’t have to fear the possibility of fading into oblivion.

I'm pretty sure about where to head. The street looks artificial, while drizzle starts to wet the cab’s window. I can tell west from east though. It’s the familiarity that I trust, the kind that requires no trepidation in falling asleep. I say that we stop in front of an apartment. The concierge smiles and nods his head twice upon seeing figures emerging from the taxi. I carry my shoes with me to the lift, knowing by heart whose footstep to follow.

Now, I imagine myself in the apartment. The room smells like vanilla and sandalwood. I don’t drink coffee, but the sound of the coffee machine brewing still comforts me. There is a big glass window overlooking the cityscape from almost a hundred feet above, and a piano by the kitchen. A pile of Polaroid pictures is scattered on the floor, waiting for me to stick them on the corkboard. I say "like calls to like"—if I’m attracted to this life, does that mean that it’s attracting me deliberately? I hope the daydreamer in me will find out the answer to that one day.