DREAMS

Is it such a bad thing to want a dream more than life itself? To crave the stillness of sleep where everything you’ve lost returns, where people who have slipped away find their way back into your arms? Sometimes I wonder if the truest form of love, peace, or desire is not found in waking life at all, but hidden inside those fleeting hours of unconsciousness.

In dreams, there is no weight of time. You fall deeper and deeper, and though your body rests, your soul stirs. The rush in your veins feels louder, wilder your heart beats as if it is finally free. You are alive in ways reality refuses to let you be. The boundaries of the possible blur, and for a moment, you remember who you were before the world told you otherwise.

Perhaps that’s why so many cling to illusion. Delusion becomes a soft pillow, a comfort too tempting to let go. Reality, by contrast, is sharp, merciless. It bends you until you nearly break, presses the air out of your lungs, and leaves you trembling with nothing but silence as company. Reality demands strength, but dreams… dreams only ask that you close your eyes.

And yet, waking is inevitable. The dream shatters like glass, and you are dragged back into the weight of the world you tried to escape. The ache sets in as quickly as breath returns. My knees pull to my chest instinctively, curling into the emptiness left behind. My eyes spill over, a running stream, as though my body mourns the loss of the dream more than it ever did the truth.

But even in that ache, there is a strange kind of hope. Because if dreams can return once, they can return again. Night after night, I let sleep take me, not out of weakness, but with the quiet faith that somewhere behind my closed eyes lies a world that still remembers me a world where love has not left, where loss is undone, and where waking up is the only thing that truly feels unreal.