Dear Dreambook,
Sometimes when I’m sitting in my room, I feel like the walls are alive. The painted handprints scattered across them look like constellations left by people who touched the stars before me. Above me, the striped ceiling folds like ribbons of night sky, and I wonder if the universe likes to decorate itself the way I do.
My purple camera rests warm in my hands. It doesn’t feel like just a camera—it feels like a gift. Every time I press the shutter, I think the stars slip a secret into the lens. I don’t just capture a picture. I hold something infinite.
I stack my books beside me—astrology, palm reading, astral travel, magic. They’re maps to invisible worlds, guides for the parts of me that want to wander beyond the ordinary. But the camera? It’s my telescope. My net for catching stardust.
Tonight, I looked at the sky again. The sunset burned pink and orange, then cooled into blue scattered with gold. It felt like the stars were practicing their art, brushing color across the horizon just for me. I raised my camera, clicked, and breathed.
Maybe the stars just want me to remember. That even on the days I feel small, the universe is close enough to fit in my hands.
And I believe it. Because when I look through my camera, I’m not only saving a moment. I’m holding the universe safe inside it, where it will never leave me.
xoxo, me
