Dreamer

Life is never easy for those who dream. 

Sometimes real life is just a way how to waste time in between the periods of sleep. 

I live two lives: one at night, my surreal life of dreams, which happens to be more eventful and adventurous than my REAL life.... BUT wait... WHAT is real? Does being conscious equal reality? Why should only what happens during the daytime be considered as real? Why are dreams regarded as a mere fantasy? 

Commonly accepted truth is that because we do not enter into dreams with our conscience (so we cannot influence what happens during dreaming) they are just elaborated stories of our overworked brain. But is it really so? Why being unconscious must undoubtedly mean being unreal?

I believe that my dreams are real, and I swear I lived all the night time stories to the fullest. And that's what makes my life so damn fascinating. 

The Dream

High from above I’m looking at the scene,

Not recognizing the girl running is me.

I never did see myself running so fast,

Barefoot and barefaced through the field,

Drops of my blood being left in the dust.

Pure white dress is torn to pieces,

That sharp thorn is ripping as it pleases.

At my bare chest I glance in fear,

My eyes blinded, blunted senses.

The one who I’m running from getting near.

I’m on the wane and he is faster,

Savagely violent, looking like monster.

Hole in his torso, his tool is all yellow.

Sticky green hands reaching out closer,

Driven by lust, digging me hollow.

Every sixty seconds passes one minute,

Time is dragging and he has no limit.

As I lay down, the innocence dies,

My body is rigid, there is no life in it.

And he’s crawling slow down to my eyes.

High from above, I’m looking at the scene,

I see miserable body that once used to be me,

Wincing between my despair and bellow,

Hand reaches out for redemption if any could be,

Touches the fabric of sheet and a pillow.