Dreams, often perceived as irrelevant for the bright, are the essence of one's existence for figments of our imagination are far more conceptual and without a flaw than anything reality ever had to offer. All though, it often occurs to one if (Apart from being a manifestation of our thoughts, ideas, feelings emotions and all that shenanigan) they encourage one to realize all that there is within their creative and constructive abilities. I mock myself upon admitting that I am in love with someone, something so intangible, yet facilitating me to arrive at the truth of a human answer, the unnerving mystery, all that we urge ourselves t o believe. Yet, it never appears to be the truth, it's like truth coming out of a liar's mouth. I wonder if subjective analysis of emotions ever really facilitated one in achieving a certain enough conclusion. Harsh enough as they may seem, they have begun to grow on me over the last two years. I believe I have come to a point where life is a metaphor, and I have a very serious role to play. ( for it is the only thing that claims to belong to me.)
Someone wants to deeply understand. I dont know why.I do not condone self destruction of any sort ( be it smoking or killing your soul by the craft of mean bitchery.) Just somehow, my dreams make me face fears, not just mine.
Read: Insomnia.
Life turns to metaphor again, and again, and again. what does it say about me?
I am a lilly-livered, truth fearing, cry child.
And to be frank,
I somehow find comfort in that.
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