When I am lost
inside of my dreams,
exploring the chasms and tunnels of my mind,
or frolicking in fairy rings,
or singing songs that the words have been forgotten to,
it's a rather quiet place.
It's the waking-up that hurts.
I open my eyes,
confused and disoriented,
as to what day it is, and where I am.
Sometimes it's with relief,
that I'm alright, (and alive!).
Sometimes it's with a terrible realization,
that what happened in my dream was no real development in the world I call real,
and that I can probably never dream it again.
I am a native of two worlds.
I think time works differently in dreams.
Maybe that's why dreams aren't continuations of stories.
They're a labyrinth of people and oddities,
horror and wonder,
happiness and sadness.
It's the two-sides of a coin,
the light and the dark,
fantasy and realism.
My itinerary says I have a flight to my other world,
please excuse me.