Dreams

The grandest things in the world become the worst when they die out.

    Dreams are frustrating to me.  They do everything words should do, but can't, without any flaw: they are the perfection of story telling.  A place where everything I've ever thought, every silence I've ever/never heard, everyone I've ever known can be there.  Where the dead are alive, more than alive: they are smiling back at me, it's all there in a dream.     

    Not some syrupy day dream, a real, rich, dark, full fledged, terrible, and beautifull nocternal narcoleptic dream, so deep and smooth it is more real than life and yet too beautifull to be true.  One you fall into, arms outstretched; a clueless smile on your face, where you can feel everything, where you can't control anything: you are automated by some outside force.  And that's why It's so good: no human intervention: no flaws.               

    They are terrifying,  and amazing,  soul crushing, majestic, and hopeless.  For when they end there is no more perfection, eden escapes your grasp, and you pull your bed tighter in hopes that some warmth will return, but you can't bring it back.  It is an untamed and frustrating thing a dream, to express your life on one canvas and not be able to share it: a picture of my soul that fades upon the first touch of daylight.                                   

 

Author's Note

Mabye it's just my dreams that work this way, please tell me what you think.

Reviews

[Dana Shefelbine]

i'm lost for words; your style is absolutely breathtaking.
i couldn't agree more with this short story, i do feel the same.