I sleep and I dream.
I dream of far away places. On a place where the fields are from my feet to the distance and the distance touch the feet of the mountains.
I dream in flashbacks. I dream of old lost friendships, old lost situations. Old lost moments. Moments I chose to fear instead of love, and when the morning rise I ache and sorowfully wish to return to my dreams and make it a reality.
And so, since an early age my dreams came to me and interupted my days, the moments of awakening. Old churches and a wedding ceremony, a soldier who's gone far away to the war and swamps I drowned in, and saved myself from. Used old soap to clean my white wedding gown. Dreams of the people I did not trust that happened to be the only good truth tellers I have ever had in reality, and worlds, other worlds I traveled, and when I landed back on my feet from the clouds of my dreams I felt deep sorrow and wanted to just go back. But the only thing I could do is return to my bed at night and sometime, only sometime I had the strength to return to the old dream and there I completed my inner dream, the things I longed for to happen in reality.
The only dreams I did not wish to return is these dreams when i return to my best friend's granny's house which is now falling apart, broken floors, missing stairs and terrorists are invading, we sleep in the ancient mantions in wooden white scary canopy beds and at day hide in small dusty red cars, full of candy wrapps.
And so I dream, and so I wake, and so I search for meaning, and I forget. And nights are glory, and days are sorrow, and sometimes it is the other way around. And I mourn, and heavy, and forgetful, and happy too, and sometimes i never dream, and only then its when i truly rest.
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