Life sometimes feels a little odd when you dream. I’ve lived in beautiful worlds inside my head, but sometimes they’re so far from my real environment that I wake up sick and my head feels numb.
“Can I even have my dream life?” I sometimes ask myself and wonder if I should just give it up and accept what’s here. But it tugs at my throat as it tries to push tears out my eyes, “you have to hold on, it is all there is of you–your dreams. They are all you really truly have.”
So I pick up the rags of my dreams which I sometimes used to just start to toss and shed, and I sew them back together and I don them to weigh on me with their lightness of hope. Oh heavy lightness of hope.
I pick up my sanity which lie on the floor, oh she oft lied there for days in years prior. But I pick her up now and hold her up, I try to let her not even drop. I put her back as a crown upon my head, I carry her, though she makes me feel as a fool at times.
I put upon my back again, the precious satchel of my dignity and beliefs and I walk one more day on the path of my dreams.
I toss these all off sometimes in the shade of my potential demise, but how can I stay naked for too long of these things which have kept me alive?
I cannot. So I trip and I fall and I wake up sick and I have nightmares and daymares of everything falling apart and nothing making sense and nothing adding up. I let it all confuse me because maybe this life I hold to in my head is worth it. It is worth it and that is why I live in the torture of its hope and journey and walk.
My head down sometimes in sorrow or humility, but I walk it, and I will always walk it, because the days like this become fewer and fewer and I’m closer and closer, I know it that I am! It itches at me, this belief, that it attacks me more the closer I am to paradise. It scratches at me, all these pains, it picks sores and scabs into my body and soul, my dignity and heart and mind. It gouges and gashes and it makes all such noise to drive me off my path to heaven, my path to this life I dream.
Reality will suck. It is true, it just will. So living in my dreams and drowned in their sweet scent and embrace will at least give me–if not real, then false–hope to keep me on this path of life.
Maybe dreaming makes me take the harder and bumpier route, because every sense of hopelessness rocks and shatters me more than if I had no hope to rock or shake, but it keeps me breathing, it keeps me alive. For why would I want to live unless it were in my dreams, and why would I want to breathe unless it was the air of the hope of beauty?
So thus, I will trek this journey of pain, for the hills that are hardest to climb, have the most beautiful valleys beneath them on the other side, do they not?
All you have is your dreams, and it is a true possibility that they are your future reality. So do not give them up, my love. I will not, and I still hope for you.
And of course, even this reality could be very, very fake. I might as well cling to what I love, for both have just a chance of being.
All this is meaningless and temporary anyway. For heaven is coming and behold, it is upon us.