When is it that dreams become
nightmares? Not while in slumber,
nothing morphs or twists into some
horrible form. There is not something
that melts away in front of your eyes, it
is in the waking mind that dreams
are realized as vessels of pain and longing.
For weeks I have, every morning, ignorantly
opened my eyes only to be taken
by the conscious, pleading to return me to
the soft cradle of the dreaming state.
Some may live for the reality, and suffer
the torments of sleep, but I live for
the fake, the constructed, the desires of
my conscious mind made real.
Oh how wonderful it would be for those dreams
to be eternal, to end the waking persona; but
in the uncertainty of death, I only fear
to distance myself even more from life and what little
it has offered me. I wait in anxiety for sleep,
and awake to fear death, what should separate
me from you?