"..dream a dream,
and see through angel's eyes.."
and see through angel's eyes.."
Dear lonely isle,
I'm tired. There's just some things that drain you. The fact that it remains as it is isn't very encouraging. I just want to close my eyes and drift into sweet slumber, to let my subconscious take over, and lead me to another place. A place where everything's picture perfect, the place in my head.
But somehow, I'm afraid to fall asleep. I'm afraid to dream. I don't want to dream. I don't want to confuse myself anymore. I don't want to know what I think and feel deep inside. I don't want to wake up lost.
I don't want to spend waking hours trying to understand what I want. I know what I want.
It's just that what I want isn't the same as what I want inside.
Dreams are nice, I suppose. But that's all they are. Dreams.
And dreams they remain.
Dreams tire you out. They just take all that you have, and leave an empty shell behind. Hollow, and cold.
And at the end of the day, that's all we cling on to. Empty, meaningless dreams.
But they say that he who does not dream can never touch the sky.
I would like to touch the sky.
But it seems that even people who dream do not touch the sky.
So we sit on earth, and look up at the rainbow painted across the clouds.
And we wonder if there really is a pot of gold at the end.
We dream there is, but when we look, all that remains is the colourful smile in the sky, amongst clouds, forever mocking us, forever out of reach.
So how do we touch the sky?
How do we find that pot of gold?
Maybe if we spend more time looking ahead, then up in the clouds, we would have made our own pot of gold. Perhaps we would have learned how to fly, and brushed our cheeks against the clouds.
So, does he who dream touch the sky?
All I know is, he who does not dream,
But somehow, I'm afraid to fall asleep. I'm afraid to dream. I don't want to dream. I don't want to confuse myself anymore. I don't want to know what I think and feel deep inside. I don't want to wake up lost.
I don't want to spend waking hours trying to understand what I want. I know what I want.
It's just that what I want isn't the same as what I want inside.
Dreams are nice, I suppose. But that's all they are. Dreams.
And dreams they remain.
Dreams tire you out. They just take all that you have, and leave an empty shell behind. Hollow, and cold.
And at the end of the day, that's all we cling on to. Empty, meaningless dreams.
But they say that he who does not dream can never touch the sky.
I would like to touch the sky.
But it seems that even people who dream do not touch the sky.
So we sit on earth, and look up at the rainbow painted across the clouds.
And we wonder if there really is a pot of gold at the end.
We dream there is, but when we look, all that remains is the colourful smile in the sky, amongst clouds, forever mocking us, forever out of reach.
So how do we touch the sky?
How do we find that pot of gold?
Maybe if we spend more time looking ahead, then up in the clouds, we would have made our own pot of gold. Perhaps we would have learned how to fly, and brushed our cheeks against the clouds.
So, does he who dream touch the sky?
All I know is, he who does not dream,
does not see the sky.
love, joyce.
0 comments:
Post a Comment