# 57 || “Last night … I dreamt of colours, lots of bright and happy colours and swans kissing and maybe I think they were singing.”

Sometimes I find the grandeur of everything near impossible to understand and truly identify with. Life, love, death, heartache and heartbreak — I guess the impermanence of everything that I’ve chosen to believe, leaves me jade green with envy at those foolish enough to drown in the transience that my ego is too stubborn to fall for. But what if I’m right? What if nothing, nothing, qualifies a rehearsed emotion unlike those that transpire without any sort of cue. I dream of inconvenient truths, of an honesty more raw than the sparkling scarlet of an open wound, of a world governed by passion and intensity and a love beyond your wildest dreams. I don’t know how anybody has time for the practicality that accompanies playing it safe and settling for company far less than what you deserve. 

Open up my head and my heart and let the fireworks break free, glitter and ash will spill out to make an opalescent mess  all over the earth. It is because I refuse to accept anything less than idyllic, that sometimes I think I will settle for nothing. The perfection I crave is clean and white, much like the minimalism I will have by compromising nothing for something sub-par. The goal was always to live within an everlasting dream, forever and always. 

What is the golden mean of a dream? If the polar opposite is a nightmare, then perhaps the median is limbo. I’ll never figure out if you could call my dissatisfaction with living a life filled with half-hearted (e)motions ingratitude towards the stroke of luck that is life. Am I a realist? Am I an existentialist? Am I selfish and opportunistic to wish with my whole heart that if your heart isn’t there, then who or what are you supposed to believe? 

Wishes made on stars with fingers crossed and gold coins will fuel enough hope for a little while, but I want fireworks and racing hearts and infinity moments every other minute. You know, where the wind is in your hair and there isn’t anywhere else you’d rather be. You know, when you can’t remember how you got there but you can’t imagine it ever ending. You know, where deep down you know the rest of your life will be spent striving to recreate how you feel right this very instant. That’s what I’m talking about, that’s what I want. Am I dreamer or am I dreamer?



post-script: oh, don't forget that "It is a both a blessing and a curse, 
to feel everything so very deeply."