Haven of Dreamers
by, Melissa R. Mendelson
The breeze waltzed in through glass doors. Pages whispered. History spoke, and then it was gone. Dreams of fiction lingered, kissing dust, and dreamers dreamed, hoping to reignite a fire lost. Bookshelves stood like ivory towers, cracked and wavering, but they would not fall. Here was haven, where I would remain, a ghost waiting to be found.
I now found them. Their pages rested against the wooden table, blank, waiting eagerly to be filled. Notebook pages tore and shred. Dreams begged to be heard, but was anyone listening? Did anyone hear me? The pen remained still, and they spoke in gentle tones of how the white should go black. But they were afraid.
One girl wasn’t. She dove into her notebook headfirst. Her pen tore at the pages. Her mind whirled and spun with intensity. The writing spoke to her, and she listened. And then she was spent.
I slipped into a chair. They glanced my way but didn’t see me. Then, they spoke again of writing and its challenges. Some were like that girl, and some wanted to be like her. Their lives were chapters, and they were the authors of their stories. I whispered to let go and write, but my words fell like soft, white feathers. And one did slip the pen in her hand and whispered across the page. She wrote an idea that suddenly came to mind, never realizing that it was from me.
They dreamed. Each one looking for connection, and they connected. Their minds wandered, and they followed, catching a spirit, a glimpse of what waited inside. And I dreamt with them, reaching for a page, but my hand slipped through the white.
They would write their stories. Right now, some dreamt them, and others lived them. We’re the sum of our experience, and my story’s already written. I’m spent, but I chose here to remember. Remember the dreamers that changed the world, and they have taken up that journey. I was watching history being born, and for a moment there, I existed. And they saw me.
The pages rustled like a gentle breeze wanted to dance with them. A voice called over the loudspeaker. Closing time, but they were still dreaming. They looked my way, hoping for a character to be born, but I was not theirs to write. Their characters waited, and I would meet them at their stories end. For now, my job was done. I awoke their spirits, and they would go home, hungry to write. They were writers after all, writers that would change the world, and the world would change again while they seek haven here in the place that I call home.