REAL IS
BY KAYLIE CHANG
Real is The shadows that stalk my dreams at night while I toss and turn in bed, the stress, the thoughts, that only come to mind right then, trying to sleep at night while waiting for worry to wind its way off.
Real is waiting for the world to turn, the incredible bore of WHY WON’T THEY BE DONE ALREADY when I've nothing to fly about on and everyone else has vanished, stolen from the face of the Earth for all eternity.
Real is my little brother, playful as a little lion cub and annoying as the hidden roots in the forest.
Real is practicing, learning, the art of frying, baking, mixing, cutting, with Nai Nai or Mommy or Daddy, saying it tastes more delicious when one knows the effort that was made for it.
Real is sounds as luxurious to listen to as watching the setting sun, sounds made by instrument or voice.
Real is the sheer smashing wall of joy, exhilaration, as I plunge into the freezing depths of the pool.
Real is summer camp on the hottest days studying a variety as wide as Earth, made for many, keeping me curious always.
Real is the exhilarating feeling of plunging into the depths of my mind, finding something new I have not found before.
Real is watching the letters on printed page, colors, pictures, to tell a tale may it be of times long past, of story thought with one’s own mind, a told myth of forgotten make, story of now, or our history.
Real is struggling not to sleep, trying to think of the great scaly winding creatures, high above our heads even though they might be only in the depths of our curious imaginative minds.
Real is glee, laughter packaged in guffaws found with friends, family, on a bright crisp day, with those always treasured above all.
Real is plucking herbs and plants from the earth with my family, smiling as we prepare for dinner under the hot summer sun, watering, pulling, talking, twisting, plucking from the vine.
Real is cake soft as a silk blanket, delicious as a five-star restaurant, created irreplaceable by Nai Nai, for any event, birthday, Christmas, anything that deserves a cake.
Real is thinking, sketching, outlining, coloring while I wait in hope that one day I can be someone I want to be. Real is weaving words, stringing letters together to tell the story of mystery, of fantasy, of magic, onto the page, anywhere, everywhere, for anyone, everyone, for that is what real is.