Some people, committed in their alleged dementia, for listening to other voices.
I, on the other allegedly sane side of the coin, am burdened by a thousand whispers, a million abandoned dreams left unfulfilled, wandering in the living world, to be realized by a soul who would dare spend some time walking in the shoes of someone else’s dreams.
I suppose that’s why I so often fail to wake up to the seemingly harsh reality that surrounds me, accidentally.
For I only accidentally wake up to perceive a world of dreamless wonderers, cynicized by the lack of apparent brightness, faded in the delusion of colours mixed and colours lost in the everyday mundane interactions human beings have subjected themselves to.
But not I, for I carry all the world’s dreams within me.
And it’s a burden and a blessing and a curse altogether for I am the only one that can hear when the wind gives me an idea. Or I’m the one who needs to justify why I “travel so much” or why I walk barefoot sometimes and why I’m not ashamed of being smart.
I would apologize but there was never a day where a dream was seen to be apologetic.
I’m not the one who dreams them; these dreams dream of me.