An Assortment of Not-Rights

My dreamscape consists of an upside house and a crumbling apartment complex, boldly allowing me to float between the pillars, avoiding toppling rubble because it’s my dream, and in my dream I’m able to dodge whatever I want to – that is, until I’m forced to shift to the next dreamscape, being crushed by a large ledge that brings me to a small private jet that seems to be nosediving to the ground, no fuel in the engine. I have no experience with planes or similar things and I meet my demise – I wake up and write it down.  I often thought about becoming a writer when I’m older. Of course, writing is an action, and I am a writer now and forever, but previously I meant to do it in a way more “legitimately,” in a fashion that is taken more seriously: pursue higher studies, have an agent, and more things that cost money. I don’t believe in “legitimacy” in writing, anymore, being that you do not need a degree to pursue creation, nor do I want to taint my passion with structure and rules that’ll haunt me and force me into imposter syndrome. Moreover, I realized that it isn’t writing that I love, but creating an escape – and escapes, regardless of expression, become something I feel most intensely when I’m in a place built so hollow and tall that I feel miniscule in it. Writing becomes an afterthought – I solidify my feelings in words in fear of losing the way I felt in a space so grand and otherworldly, so dreamlike, that perhaps I never experienced it unless it’s written. And for that reason, Architecture becomes my means of creating, because before I write, the dreamscape must be built. I would feel empty without writing, but I would search for something missing if I wasn’t able to pursue the tangible creation of what contains my words and builds my dreams.