Creative Writing: Finding Hope

Great Essays
1
Sometimes I don’t know who I am, where I am, or what I’m doing. I feel imprisoned, sometimes, in a state of eternal dreaming. Although my dreams aren’t happy or fun or kind. They’re just dreams. They’re not real and I’ve known this for a long time.
I see waves of sunlight pour through the bathroom window, catching fire to thousands of specks of dust.
Dust. Inconsequential to the highest degree.
I start to wonder what it would be like to be dust. Abandoned and lonely. Drifting through the world without meaning. But it’s hard to wonder – to imagine – when it’s the truth. After all, I’m made from matter that doesn’t matter: I’m dust.
I sigh and look past the window. More distractions. Outside lay a gravelled driveway, circling a fountain
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“...Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four,” I opened my eyes, “Twenty-five! Ready or not, here I come!”
I would usually find my sister in a couple of minutes. A brief list of her hiding places were: in a bush, behind a hedge, or just lying in the grass where she would claim, “If I can’t see you then you can’t see me!”
“I’m coming to find you!” I taunted, soon realising it wasn’t a good idea to give away my position. I fell silent, creeping across the grass like a sneaky tiger or a spy, listening out for anything. Footsteps. The whisper of breath. My sister.
As I explored the gardens, as quietly as I could, the autumn breeze smoothed against my skin. It wasn’t cold and it wasn’t hot and I liked that. I didn’t care for winter and the weather it came with. In fact, the only highlight of winter was to see my relatives again. I was told that I was mature, for I didn’t really care for presents at Christmas. My sister and I had that in common.
After searching the gardens for a good five minutes, I was starting to get upset that I couldn’t find my sister. I really hoped she hadn’t cheated by going inside, even though she wouldn’t usually cheat. I also found it strange that she hadn’t made any noise – being five years old she would soon become restless after being still for a few
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“Ok,” my fingers trembled as I clasped the latch, my hunger for adventure growing every second I waited. I felt adrenaline and excitement pump through me, stimulating every nerve in my body. I glanced back at Cecelia, who nodded at me, and then I pulled it open.
The hatch groaned. It had been sleeping.
Crumbs of soil rained into the tunnel, and bits of grass loomed over the sides of the square opening. I peered down, noticing a short ladder which led to the floor of the tunnel.
“What was down there?” I asked, amazed.
“It’s scary,” Cecelia proclaimed, hand still tied to mine.
“Why, what happened?”
“The door closed and I thought I wouldn’t get out – I couldn’t see anything.”
“Do you want to go down again?” I positioned myself so my feet were dangling into the tunnel.
“Promise we’ll be safe?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to go first? Just in case,” Cecelia asked.
“No, don’t,” I knew Cecelia didn’t want to go first, she was just being her usual considerate and good-hearted self.
“Ok,” Cecelia whispered. “Let’s go then,” I climbed down the steps until my feet pressed against a solid floor, “It’s safe!”
“Ok,” Cecelia climbed down and stood beside me. She had a firm presence.
“Are you scared?” I

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