Nightmares come alive when dreams die. They haunt the background of my mind. In every waking moment, I am terrified of my nightmares. The biggest nightmare, ironically, is my waking moment. For being awake is by far the most terrifying state of all.
In dreams, everything is fluid. Even deres is a passing thing. If I take care to, I can in an instant summon my courage at hand. With courage in hand, I smite everyone that stands in my way. But the waking moment stagnates. We pretend that the wake is a party. No, the wake is death.
To dream is to party. To dream is to swim in the fount of desire. To cup in my hands all my most precious secrets, and sip. To forever dream, I could forever sip. I could forever partake in what the waking moment denies me.
They love to wake. They wake to friends, to family, to lovers. I wake to death, stagnation; to laborious drudgery. How then am I to puzzle the waking configurations of my bed? How am I to step out of it on the correct side? For to step out of it at all is to step out into the banal.
To dream, I shake hands with good friends I haven’t seen in years. I visit again places I've lost. I can hold in my sight a closeness to people who have forgotten me. For they wake, and leave me to dream.
Perhaps then, left to my dreaming, I should find no surprise that there is a monster therein. A monster that stalks the inner being of time. A monster that tells me, dream on. Yes, forever dream. Slit thine throat, and forever dream.
Take that courage that thou hast marveled at in dreaming. Take it, and end the waking moment. Surrender to your passion. Tear down the veil forever. Trample on it with prideful defiance. Steel from God his authority of a life you hate and never asked for. Mock a world that has no use for you, that you in turn have no bother with. Take this blade, this mirror, and sink into it. Sink its cool touch and relive yourself of miseries held onto. Forget the future that never loved you. Forget the shackles; they will move on in their binding of others.
And to this I answer with fear. I pretend my answer is rational. I pretend my answer is love. I hang these pretenses on hopes and dreams that never come true in the waking moment. So I hang them on a future that does not exist; it never did. And so, my reasoning fails me. I wake. I wake to a world of drudgery, wherein my dreams are hung on nothing.
And so it is that I love nothing. Nothing has never hurt me. Nobody has always loved me. No one loves my childish antics. If I could only drag myself to the abyss with a smile. If I could be brave enough to make nowhere my home, make no one my lover, make nobody my friend, and make nothing my desire.
I sit alone most nights. Afraid of the waking moment. Afraid of nightmares. Afraid of myself. Hoping against hope that somewhere in the waking moment my dreams can come true. And knowing with the pit of my soul that this was never meant to be.
So my shadow whispers to me, to dream on. To catch a boat and unfurl the sail. To grab the wind by its coattails and trail off forever. I wish to trail off forever. I wish to trail off forever.