Lost in the Doodles
A child at a desk,
crumpled paper, scattered crayons,
every mark a doorway
to a place bigger than this room.
I drew a dragon once.
Not ordinary—scales that shimmered
like deep space, each one
reflecting its own small universe.
And when I shaded the last curve,
it twitched.
Just a quiver. Enough
to stop my heart.
Its head turned. Eyes glowing
with a light that didn’t belong here.
It roared—distant thunder
rolling through my bedroom walls.
I touched the page
and the world split open.
Suddenly I stood on shifting ground,
a sky swirling purple and gold,
trees like spun candy,
air thick with impossible flowers.
Everything I’d drawn was alive.
The dragon soared above me,
trailing dust that glittered like crushed stars.
I was no longer watching.
I was inside it. I was part of it.
The power was intoxicating—
shaping a world with a thought,
a line, a smudge of color.
But the edges started to blur.
Colors bled. Shapes dissolved.
The dragon flickered,
its roar shrinking to a whisper,
brilliant scales fading into fog.
I grabbed at what was left—
smoke through my fingers.
And then, sharp and sudden: clarity.
This was never meant to last.
Dreams don’t hold. They exist
only as long as the mind
can keep them spinning.
I closed my eyes. Let go.
Opened them at my desk again,
drawings flat and quiet,
sunlight warm on paper.
But I was different.
Every line—a doorway.
Every mark—a passage.
The doodles fade,
but the spark that made them
stays.
One line. One doodle.
One universe at a time.