I had a bad dream last night.

I murdered my mother and I had to get rid of the bones. I thought of going to some desolate places to dump them but then thought that if I did, soon those places might be developed and the bones would be found. So maybe the best thing to do is just bury the bones somewhere that’s already developed and plant a tree over it.

I asked my brother for help and he complied. We went to a spot we have chosen. It was a cemented courtyard usually used for parking and there were building surrounding all three sides of the lot. The cemented parts itself were bordered with grassy areas where some decorative plants had been planted.

My brother and I headed for the upper right corner of the lot. We had brought along two tree saplings, a shovel, and my mother’s bones wrapped in white cloth. However, the cloth was not large enough to wrap the bones completely so I spied a thigh bone sticking out.

I facepalmed myself in my mind thinking how stupid I was for not being more prepared but it was too late. We are here already we should just get it over with.

As we started, the noise of the shovel attracted the neighbours. So as I looked up, I saw heads and faces looking out curiously through the windows of the adjacent buildings.

I started to feel nervous. Can they see the bones from where they were?

My brother had just finished digging the hole when I got startled by a woman who had come up behind us to see what we were doing.

I panicked and grabbed the white cloth bag and held it behind my back hoping I wasn’t being too obvious.

She only said one thing. “I know why you are here.”

Suddenly a little boy appeared beside me. I tried to turn my body so he and the woman standing in front of me won’t be able to see the bag of bones but it wasn’t enough. The little boy saw.

The next thing I knew, I was back at the woman’s house because she wanted to negotiate a deal for not saying anything.

I got furious at her, at them. Why couldn’t they mind their own business, and what made them think I had any money at all?

So I killed them. I broke the little boys’ neck and I kicked, hit, and punched the woman till she stopped breathing.

A friend’s boyfriend tweeted about getting a new car. From what he wrote, I think he got himself a Nissan GTI.

MY DREAMCAR.

*pouts*

Oh, to be rich and young… He hasn’t even completed his tertiary studies yet and he can afford to get himself a car like that. Gah, I wish I was horribly rich too.

Gee. I think I haven’t been happy in a long time. I can only write when I’m happy and since I haven’t written in ages… Boo me.

Not like I’m very happy at the moment. Far from it but I want to try being able to write in any emotions I’m feeling again. Just like when I was a teen.

It wasn’t just the naivety that helped drive my ability to write all the time. It was more the feeling of being inspired that floated around me all the time. The strings of sentences always being created and swimming around in my mind.

I remember my “heroes”. Roald Dahl and his imagination (also the fact that he was an avid writer/journalist/”documenter” of his own life - writing anything and everything), and Harriet the Spy who wrote EVERYWHERE.

Thinking back now. I feel inspired again. I love that I could be just like Harriet except with a Blackberry instead of a school notebook. Harriet wins though. Writing in a notebook which you bring everywhere is much more romantic than toting your phone around (something that everyone does anyway).

PS. I’m not happy (currently) cos I’m in the middle of a fight with the boyfriend but I think right after I post this, I will give him a kiss on his cheek to apologise.

PPS. I’m better at writing than the spoken word.

PPPS. Yes, that makes me that awkward quiet girl you always wondered about when you spy her across the room but forgot as soon as you spot your own friends.