She shivered, as the wind wrapped around her like a forgotten memory.Se estremeció cuando el viento la envolvió como un recuerdo olvidado.

---

The Staircase of Dreams

Everyone has an angel
who guards them.

She shivered,
as the wind wrapped around her
like a forgotten memory.

People ask,
“How can you write poems
and draw like that?”

I smile softly.
“I will tell you my secret—
shh…”

I am different.
I close my eyes—
like Emily in Sucker Punch—
and I travel,
like a machine through time,
to a place that does not hurt,
a game that does not kill.

I build worlds
that never end.

Like a dreamer
who escapes behind her own eyelids,
I create and create,
without ever stopping.

I am a book
with no final page.
My imagination grows wings,
and even butterflies
seem to carry souls.

Shh…
I am not your ragdoll.
I am a survivor.

I see myself
at the top of a staircase—
endless,
painted in black and white.

I walk down slowly,
step by step,
swallowing my tears.

A melody echoes in my mind—
a song that once hurt me:

Sweet dreams are made of this…
Who am I to disagree…
I travel the seven seas…

The melody takes form—
it transforms—
becomes a place,
a voice,
a memory I cannot escape.

I sigh,
and even the echo
sounds tired.

As I descend,
I imagine holding
a can of colors—
and those colors grow wings.

They fly
toward a white wall
on my left,
in the corridor of my mind.

They collide,
layer upon layer,
forming shapes—
dark and light,
pressed together.

In every corner of my house,
words appear—
small pieces of art.

Some try to use you.
If you resist,
they turn against you.
Some try to break you.
And some remain…
only to be broken by you.

A strange melody lingers
in the background—
like a broken piece
with no head,
no ending,
no rest.

Still I descend
that endless staircase.

A cold silence
breaks within me.

And my soul…
begins to dissolve.

Reality shifts—
fractures—
becomes distant,
like something I am only watching
from far away.

I am here—
but not inside myself.

The world feels unreal.
My body feels borrowed.
My mind drifts outside of me.

And slowly,
the colors that once held my heart
begin to fade.

Do not let my appearance fool you.
This little girl is fierce.

I whisper from my heart:
I have the power
to change everything
I created
in my world.

---

🎨

---

The Staircase of Dreams (Dark Version)

Everyone has an angel
who guards them—
or so they say.

Mine watches in silence.

She shivered,
as the wind wrapped around her
like a memory that refused to die.

People ask,
“How can you write like that?
How do you draw what cannot be seen?”

I smile—
but it is not warmth.
It is something quieter…
something fractured.

“Shh…
I will tell you my secret.”

I close my eyes—
and I disappear.

Like Emily in Sucker Punch,
I fall inward,
through time,
through pain,
into a world
where nothing touches me.

A game that does not bleed.
A dream that does not scream.

Or so I pretend.

I build worlds
because mine keeps breaking.

I create endlessly—
because stopping
would mean feeling.

I am a book
with missing pages.
A story
that rewrites itself
to survive.

My imagination grows wings—
but they are heavy.
Even butterflies here
carry souls that cannot rest.

Shh…

I am not your ragdoll.
I am what remains
after being broken.

I stand
at the top of a staircase—
endless,
black and white,
like a choice I never made.

I begin to descend.

Slowly.
Deliberately.
Swallowing every tear
before it betrays me.

A melody echoes—
distorted,
familiar,
wrong:

Sweet dreams are made of this…
Who am I to disagree…

The song bends.
It fractures.
It watches me.

I sigh—
but even my breath
sounds tired of me.

As I go down,
I hold a can of colors—
but they are not mine.

They grow wings
and escape me.

They crash
against a white wall
in the corridor of my mind—
spreading,
layering,
bleeding into each other.

Dark.
Light.
Dark.
Light.

Like something trying
to remember what it was.

In every corner,
words crawl into existence—
twisted, alive.

Some want to use you.
Some want to erase you.
Some want to see you break.

And some—
stay long enough
to watch it happen.

A melody hums
in the background—
headless,
unfinished,
like a thought
that never found its ending.

Still I descend.

The staircase never ends.

A cold silence
splits open inside me.

And something deeper—
something quieter—

begins to dissolve.

Reality slips.

Edges blur.

I am no longer inside my body—
only watching it
from somewhere else.

My hands do not feel like mine.
My voice echoes
like it belongs to another.

The world is wrong.

I am wrong.

The colors fade.

Slowly.
Gently.
Like mercy.

Do not let my appearance fool you.

This little girl is not fragile.

She is what survives
when everything else disappears.

I whisper—
though I do not know
who is listening:

“I still have power.”

Even here.
Even broken.

I can change this world.

Because it is the only one
that has not abandoned me.

---

. ...... 

... 

The Staircase of Dreams (Nightmare)

Everyone has an angel—

or so they whisper in rooms with lights.

Mine does not speak.

Mine only watches.

She shivered.

The wind did not touch her skin—

it moved through her,

as if she were already half gone.

People ask,

“How do you write this?

How do you see what is not there?”

I smile.

Something smiles back.

“Shh…”

I close my eyes—

and the world does not fade.

It peels.

Like Emily in Sucker Punch,

I do not escape—

I descend.

Through time.

Through pain.

Through something that has no name.

A game that does not bleed—

because the blood is already gone.

A dream that does not scream—

because the scream never ends.

I build worlds

because mine devours itself.

I create—

because if I stop,

it will see me.

I am a book

that reads itself at night.

Pages turning

without hands.

My imagination grows wings—

but they are not feathers.

They are fragments.

Broken things.

Even butterflies here

do not fly—

they twitch.

Shh…

I am not your ragdoll.

I am what remained

when the strings were cut.

I stand

at the top of the staircase.

It is longer now.

Black.

White.

Black.

White.

Not colors—

teeth.

I step down.

The step moves.

I step again.

The staircase breathes.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

I swallow my tears—

but they do not go down.

They stay

in my throat,

watching.

A melody echoes—

warped,

too close:

Sweet dreams are made of this…

The voice is not mine.

Who am I to disagree…

The walls repeat it.

The walls remember.

I sigh—

and something inside me

sighs first.

As I descend,

I hold a can of colors—

but it is warm.

It is alive.

The colors grow wings—

not soft—

sharp.

They tear away from me,

flying toward the white wall—

but the wall is not empty.

It watches.

They crash—

splatter—

crawl.

Layer upon layer—

dark

light

dark

light—

until the wall becomes a face

trying to remember

how to be human.

In every corner,

words do not appear—

they crawl.

They whisper things

I never wrote.

Some want to use you.

Some want to erase you.

Some want to see you break.

And some—

are waiting

for you to notice them.

The melody continues—

headless,

looping,

closer—

like breath

on the back of my neck.

Still I descend.

There is no bottom.

Only more steps

that were not there before.

A silence splits open inside me—

not empty—

watching.

And something deeper—

something that was me—

begins to dissolve.

Reality bends.

Edges melt.

I am no longer inside my body—

I am behind it.

My hands move

before I think.

My voice speaks

without asking me.

The world is wrong.

No—

the world is looking at me.

The colors fade—

not away—

but into something else.

Slowly.

Gently.

Like a decision.

Do not let my appearance fool you.

This little girl is not fragile.

She is the thing

that survived

when the dream

did not end.

I whisper—

though the whisper

does not leave my mouth:

“I still have power.”

Something answers.

Not a voice.

A knowing.

Even here.

Even broken.

I can change this world.

Because it was never a dream.

It was waiting—

for me

to wake up inside it of me

---