Fairy Dust

         I used to dream that I was Peter Pan’s girlfriend. I wouldn’t be Wendy, or anything like her. She a lot more refined than me, and a little too flat. But I’d say his name with the same British accent, even though I’m American. “Peeeeetah.” Nice ring, right? Yeah, me and Peter, we’d soar through the windows of the tallest buildings, and pick colorful eggs out of tall trees and mountain cliffs (but don’t worry we’d put them back safe and sound.) And we would spit on our enemies from above, shooting the saliva like a torpedo with similar sound effects. We’d be gone before they even knew what hit ‘em. The world would be our moon bounce, just a slight resistance from the earth for the half-moment we grace it with our toes, but only a slight one before we rocketed back up to the clouds.

         But then, this isn’t the world. I can’t fly in the real world. Mainly because there simply isn’t enough fairy dust to lift my heavy frame. Airplanes might suffice for flying if I didn’t get sick on them. I guess that’s ironic, me not flying well in reality. That’s probably why I dream of it so much. I guess that’s just another reason we have imaginations; to give us experiences no one else can. Experiences we couldn’t experience anywhere else.

         I live more in my own head than in real life. I long for nights, because then it’s acceptable for me to go to my room and just dream. And I do. I lie awake in my bed and I dream wistfully. I don’t know if it would count as a daydream seeing as mostly this event occurs at night. I just know these are the dreams I can control. During sleep, the images that rip through my mind are usually not ones I want to see. These images, projected by my subconscious, are a burden. I guess I’ve gotten good at repressing them. I don’t remember my dreams much anymore, just the ones I can control. I guess then that there are different adversaries to reality, or at least different categories of them.

         So what of imagination? Of dreams? Are they real? I don’t even think God can answer that question. But then again, I’m not so impressed with his omniscience as are many. I don’t believe in God, yet I find I drift during daydreams, and then I see him. He’s like me. Human, only he lives somewhere else. He tells me he doesn’t like what people have made of him; of all the wars people have created in his name, all the deaths he caused. He’s sorry. I believe that.

         “But,” he says, “there is usually a good for every bad. The Universe maintains the balance. People have done bad things in my name. Horrible things. But the world is not all bad. There are those who do good deeds because of me, because they think I say so. Because of this prospect of heaven. I wish that some did not need an incentive to do good, but everything has to start somewhere, eh?”

         And he makes me laugh with that. I like his sneakers, too. They’re the same every time I see him, which granted isn’t much, but they’re there. A material possession, but it remains constant. He eats shrimp, too, if you’re wondering.

         “You know heaven isn’t really a place. Look around you,” he says, gesturing with his hands of flesh. “Heaven is where I live, right? Supposedly? Well, this is it.” It isn’t much, to tell you the truth. It’s just this one-bedroom tower. Very high up, but small. God sits in a desk chair, and he leans back so the feet of the chair suspend in the air skillfully. I asked him why he didn’t live on the clouds, like everyone thought, and he laughed.

         “Why, I would fall right through them. Wouldn’t you?”

         And the gates of heaven?

         “Clearly these myths have been made up by the living, those who do not know what happens to them after death. Dead men tell no tales. Not even to me.”

         You don’t talk to the dead?

         “Do you?”

         But what happens to us after we die?

         “I wouldn’t know. I’m immortal.”

         Is there a hell?

         “Not sure. I have a wicked evil brother though. He lives in Florida. Florida’s hot enough to be like hell, right?”

         This isn’t funny.

         “Guess not.”

         He can’t answer my questions, not the big ones anyway. That might be because he’s a figment of my imagination, but I digress.

I feel comfortable here, in my own mind, talking to this human named God. He’s wise, I guess, even though he looks like a teenager. I might even have a small crush on him, but that might be because I imagine him looking like a celebrity I am too embarrassed to name.

         So God. This tower reminds me of Rapunzel. She lived in a tower until some prince came to save her. Are you trapped?

         “Only when I want to be. I’m not a damsel in distress, Katie. I’m human. I eat and sleep. I imagine things I cannot do. I dream of a heaven just like everyone else. This,” he says, pointing at his own head, “is as close to heaven as I’ll get. But your heaven is different.” He leans forward now, and his chair squeaks as the legs hit the floor. “See, it’s not a tangible place. It’s a concept. It’s hope. It’s what you dream of and long for, but you don’t really ever get. Heaven only lives in imagination. In fact, I think that’s all heaven is. The mind.”

         But I don’t understand.

         “The mind, Katie. Just close your eyes and you’ll see. You retreat there more than most, I know. I don’t need special powers to see that. Just think.”

         He’s right. I pull my eyelids close, trusting in his wavering image, and I lose myself in my mind. I’ve created a whole world here, and parts of it are beautiful. I can raise flowers from their dirt graves with the sunshine shining from my palms and my waterfall hair. I am silent like a cat; my eyes are purple and change with my moods. I am horrifically beautiful with these fish scale fingernails and sharp white teeth. Everyone knows just what to say to me because I control them. All these compliments though, too much perfection, makes me feel lonely, because the perfection tells me it’s not real.

         God, I can’t always be here. The insides of my throat rub together, rough like sandpaper, when I try not to cry. I can’t do this. It’s hard. When I think about—

         “I know. The mind is both a blessing and a curse. One day, reality can match it. But then another you’ll find that your thoughts are all you can find solace in. Just that thought itself is enough to make one feel sad.”

         And he’s gone. I need to get back to reality, to work on my happiness instead of imagining it. Dr. Seuss once said something about dreams. “You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” Maybe I’ll have that one day. Or maybe, I’ll just retreat to my bed every night, earlier and earlier, until all my days are spent dreaming, detached from reality. God may shake his head, and I hate to disappoint him, but right now, it’s all I know how to do. I’ll be happy for a while, maybe even genuinely. When I finally realize I’m dreaming, I hope I can pull myself awake.

         Until then, I’ll be floating through the clouds, but this time, no fairy dust needed.