the making of a dream

i was adding butter into some yellow sludge called banana cake when suddenly, out of the blue, i asked my sister "what does home feel to you"

she said "this is home"

I remember the thing closest to home, is the red roses i see in paris, the chill air I felt when i stepped out of claridges

i kept stirring the mixture, my mind as cloudy as the white foam

i felt so wrong when everything is so right

"maybe someday, I'll write."

"i'll open a bakery, one section labelled homemade, the other patisserie."

"you think its hard to make a movie? even one with a small budget?"

" i think its sad to stop dreaming"

and the kitchen was suddenly immersed in the smell of a sweet answer.