I dream of a pleasant landscape, full of trees and free of worries and troubles. I can see myself running through the world, ecstatic and free in all the ways that I wish I could be. Sometimes I just sit by the stream and drink from the clear spring waters and let the cold waters flow down my throat and burn in my belly. Other times I sit at the edge of the woodland and stare at the moon, and dream within a dream of imagination and candy flowers. Still, I return back to this world and wonder where my fascination has gone.
Sometimes when I feel dead in this world, I abandon it and retreat into imagination, and wish that things I wished for came true. Wish that I had made something of myself and accomplished so much, and rail against the reality that I am, at my core, utterly insignificant. In my dreams I walk through a landscape both beautiful and alluring, an alien and obtuse world unknown in my time. I can only beg that such places exist, and it gives me hope for death.
Sometimes I dream of the desolation, and I walk through fields of cinder and ash, and in the distance wolves circle in the light of street lamps. I am walking over junk yards, and my dog Barney is there. But I know that isn't true, because my father killed him when I was young. Other times I am old and fat, and there is a woman in the bar slapping me. And I know that is true because I was there yesterday. But why can I not remember?
Everything in life slips together into one stream of consciousness. I don't know if I'm dreaming at all, or if I'm even alive. Maybe I'm just the imagination of something else.