For weeks and weeks, I kept dreaming of this little girl, her description in another blog post;

Her bouncing ash brown curls suit her round youthful face; her brown eyes twinkled when she looks at me. She runs around in circles holding a white daisy on her hand, smiling, laughing, giggling. I couldn't help but be happy just seeing her; as if she's the epitome of happiness, the human form of sunshine, of rainbows, and of smiles.

The very same dream again and again. She looked like me, yes, and her features were probably from my other half, which remains a mystery to me. I was enamoured of her. I felt like she was buried deep into my heart, just waiting to be noticed, to be loved.

Her aura seems to be fairy-like, of fairy-tale story, but all the whole she laughed and smiled, my dream's background was white. Blurry. Foggy. Obscured. I wanted to see beneath it but I couldn't. I couldn't even touch her. It seems like I was just there to witness her smile, and it saddened me that I couldn't feel her in any way.

So that I wouldn't forget her face, I drew her. It's poorly done, and it looks better in black and white, done in oil pastels. I didn't give justice to it though; she was much, much more beautiful in my dream. So dazzling. So... Happy.

If you might be wondering why her name is Izabella, it's because I've wished for that name. When I was little my mother used to call me Isabel, as my nickname is Iza. I asked her why she didn't play around the spelling; well without her answering that I already knew the answer. My mother isn't very creative with spellings and such; she was much too realistic. But still I love my name for all its worth. Even if I'm often times a wet blanket, I was told that I was a face meant to smile.
And that I should be happy because I am fortunate than others, happier than others. Serves my name right as Feliza means exactly that.

Izabella means Devoted to God, to which I hope that she would be God-fearing as I am. But a dream is a dream; it may come true or it may not.

An entertainment behind our closed lids, maybe, a fantasy while we sleep. Or a premonition of some kind. Dreams are strange and often inspiring, striking up something from deep in the heart. Deep desires-- something we accumulate and collect during the day.

And now, after thinking hard about posting this, I decided I should. This was written when the nights and my pen were still my companion.

A Dream: Izabella

sunshine played along the lines of her hair,
not dark, not light, but ashen locks of curls.
Her face round and healthy, and her cheeks rosy,
her plump lips lighted by the rainbows.

And her eyes, her eyes, her lighted brown ones,
sung of unheard melodies and innocence,
as she danced along of the silent music
that played about her smart head.

Happiness surrounded her sturdy frame,
hands that whirled with the wind,
soon to make beautiful things.

A laugh that echoes down the vagabond,
a graceful body that puts swans to shame,
a voice of a million angels on her tongue
Izabella; yes, that's what I named her,
a twinkle of my eye, or a beat of my heart,
someday to be made of love and passion,
of kisses and hugs, of language and art.

Conceived in my head, long before she's born,
thought of and loved, before she knew herself.

Izabella, a mere dream, my dream,
to walk the Earth,
to spread love, hope, and share a-many dreams,
to live, with a beating heart, with a soul, and a smile.

It had too many adjectives, but I don't know why I don't want to change it. I made more of it, but I reckon one is already enough.
How advanced for me to think of the future so fast. When I confided in my friends, they said I was starting to be a loony somehow. Ahh, solitude has changed me so much, even in dreams.

It's because a feeling such as this when provoked can't be ignored. The feeling like you're bursting with love has never happened to me before. A love such as this. So powerful; so touching.

-Currently listening to a friend's guitar version of Radiohead - Like Spinning Plates, it has helped me write again, and it very much sounds like Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. I thank you Jonathan.