Dreams are made of porcelain. It is an art to make them, they are beautiful to look at and easily shattered when confronted with reality. There is no higher, metaphysical meaning to them. They are simply (albeit sometimes hard to decipher) manifestations of what we wish for and fear. Often enough, we use them so as to torture ourselves: just in the moment when what or whom we long for comes into hand’s reach, we awake; and this moment of awaking more often than not means awaking to the fact that what or whom we desire shall never be available to us. Thus, leaving a dream becomes entering a living nightmare. And when both sleeping and being awake have eventually become just two versions of the same torturing chamber, we know, though we usually refuse to admit it, that the stage for our demise is set. Hence life inevitably will be a downward spiral from which there neither will nor could be any possible escape. We may write about our desires, and we may talk about our longings, and we deceive ourselves by concealing from us that of which we know we cannot run from – we can never outrun our own shadows. Thus, the crack in your eye hurts me beyond repair, for although I should love to heal it, I shall never be able to, since I am not what you desire. And thus, we sit on our separate islands, preparing to drown ourselves in the poison sea we created instead of taking each other’s hand and enfold one another in an ever so soothing embrace which could easily give us shelter from the storm raging across the chaotic sea we so carelessly call our minds.
I miss you with every single, painful second my revolting heart pounds against my heavy chest.