The Memory of Life

I live in such a far away place that the ties that make life happen are no longer bound. I dream everyday of things that aren't happening, things that may never happen. Reality is a looming catastrophe.

I find myself dreaming while doing the most mundane of things, while drinking my coffee, making my bed, folding my laundry. But I dream when I'm reading too - I see everything so clearly. All the swirling colors and falling places. I see faces, people I want to know so desperately, people who I think hold some sort of key to my future, to my present.

But dreams are only dreams, and reality is falling heavily. Like tiny atomic bombs, the realities of the present crash into my dreams, sending shards of them flying every which way. I can hear my daydreams shriek in agony, the pain of real life too difficult to bear for their filmy flimsy existence.

I am there in my daydreams, not in the everyday working life. I can hear myself talking, I can see people smiling, but I'm not really here anymore. I am somewhere far far away, living like I've wanted to for a long time. Living like I'm supposed to. In dreams I think I am myself, yet in reality I am a little shell. Hollowed out and gouged deep.

In dreams I am energetic and warm, friendly and emotional, all of the things I lack in reality. My caustic remarks are few, my pessimistic voice mute. I wish I could merge the dream me and the real me to make a perfect combination, yet I'm far too busy dreaming to ever make it happen.

My dreams float above me, calling like sirens on a long forgotten shore. They could be as blissful as a honeyed song, yet for my present they are merely aids in my failing to live.