Mimpi.

Thick, dark waves, gaining volume in each creeping distance, rolling into a city skyline. Clouds shroud the daylight glimmer, hidden away behind the bellowing groans of thunder: much like a tiger, disturbed of its peace.

I am running now; panting in and out of breath, sweat beading down my face.

The sight of speed; swift, translucent lines trace the buildings into silhouettes. Strokes painted in monochromes, spinning webs of resisting motions: the heavy winds rush against me: she is the river now, on a tantrum, and her currents only demand vigorous rebellion.

Pushing and pulling and crashing into doors that would not open. One after the other, looking all exactly alike, they simply would not budge. The waves behind me, looming demons they were, drawing closer, erasing marks of my footprints from the gravel. I am panicking now, desperate for an escape.

A door opens.

Lunging in and slamming the door behind me exerts a sudden gasps silence.

How eerie. Cold, and dusty, only barely lit by sunlight coming from the windows on the highest floor, which seems perhaps 80 feet away.

The world begins to spin, alternating visions between sanity and absurdity - like a kaleidoscope of dreams and memories.

The mean cement staircase begins now to spiral mechanically, echoing at each bend, presenting before me, a maze-like path travelling upward, to what seems like infinity.

A peculiar sight: ballerinas all dressed in faded pink tutus, with hairs in a perfect bun, now appear before me like a draft of cold air, out of nowhere, tip-toeing elegantly along the dusty steps. How alluring they look, like ghosts drifting over a still lake - their feet hover only millimeters above the ground.

Music begins to hum in my head, getting louder and louder: A crescendo! It is a strange type of sound - how it is so quiet, and seducing - a devilish enigma behind a piano.

I follow them as their spins and pirouettes trace dusty streams of ash.

I am transfixed upon them. Caught in a spell, clinging on to their delicate beauty, as if they were beacons of hope, sent from the Gods. Up and up and up the stairs - two stories, then three, then four.

At last I reach the top.

It is brighter here. The dancers have gone, and the music has stopped.

Silence again.

How lonely it was: a little girl, lost and trapped on the highest floor of the emptiest, coldest, and dustiest building one could imagine.

Something loud - a scream, a shriek, or a siren breaks the silence.

The tsunami, with roaring waves, one after the other, growing louder and louder. The concrete walls around me, those that had posed themselves to save me, began to crack. How brittle they seemed, tumbling down so immediately.

Water engulfed me, currents conquered me, debris attacked me.

My body was taken away by the waves: so deep and daunting they were, crashing into me with the force of a million storms. Wrestled beneath the currents, I was tossed and tumbled; thrown from distance to distance.

A tragic dream.

How selfish of my desolate pain to bully me so. To take away everything; To haunt my sleep even; To end a story that spoke of hope, and murder it with calamity.

Indeed, a nightmare, in disguise.