I am a dream.
I am a dream. No illusions but for the one of the whole world. No moral lines. No accountability. Nothing no more a lie, for what is a lie in a lie. And the world blurs, for the many faces that I live with, none exist and everything exists at the same time. The bright colours, sky blue, magenta, pitch black they disperse and copulate with each other creating an existence of one that is not singular but plural.
The worries that I have seem so distant like the lingering sadness or fear that stays with you after a dark dream night. One that infuriates you and kills your sanity for it seems to stalk you without you ever finding out and yet you are vaguely aware of a foreign presence. And then there are ones that I have conjured up in this lie, which seem so near. The guilt of a sin never committed but as real as truth in the lie. The joy of a happiness never bestowed.
And then someone wakes. And I die.
