I was a dreamer. Approximately a year ago I stopped dreaming so much. You know how people dream when nothing eventful befall their lives? Yes, that was me.
Up until the point in time when I began to muddle my mind with so much crap, making it virtually impossible to think. Then, I actually found it repulsive to dream.
But it came to be exhausting. Mentally. Physically. Emotionally exhausting.
Everything came to be a burdensome obligation. Days dragged on to weeks, wasted as if forever existed. And there's just this... inexplicable weight that somehow grew like a cancer, unnoticed as time crawled, and in every seemingly satisfactory breath that stretches your lungs it continues to mature, spreading to the tips of your toes, the nails of your fingers, every single strand of your hair. Consumes you and pulls you down. Like water to a submarine.
The only cure is to close your eyelids and let lives of others, existent or inexistent, take you dreaming.
Or perhaps, the smile of a loved one who'll tell you everything's alright.
Sigh.
Please, can I give up now? I've neither.
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