How often we dream, and dream without thinking. Bloodspots from my skin dripping down to the earth below; I’m one with my roots- never letting it go but sometimes when I’m awake at three in the morning, I dream. Dream of going away from here. Leaving all these fragments behind.
The dawn looks different through a dreamer’s eyes, just a bit more golden with the slight tint of crimson- soon to be turned into a saffron hue. All these colours and all the life surrounding seems so much for alive to me than my old heavy soul. Only through these dreams can I escape into something more interesting, something less hurting.
I love a lot of things. Objects. People. Ideas. But most I love is words. The mere sound of syllables rolling off of tongues is what I love most. Or even inked words on creased papers. They say a lot more than people are aware and my dreams consists of making others’ dreams come true.