I want to dream again like I used to, remembering every moment in vivid, technicolor detail. I want to listen to my mind as it tells its hidden stories over and over, the ones so secret, they can only be whispered under the black veil of night. Let them become my reality; though they already are a reality, they are not a living reality.
But I want to relive them like they are, because even the nightmares have a story to tell me, a story meant only for my senses. A tale reserved only for my heart, the core of a dreamer and a poet. My mind that constantly teeters on the brink of insanity. The gooey center of a writer’s brain. The unadulterated truth of the subconscious. The beauty of it all.
I live to dream, says the girl who lives inside her pretty little head. I wish I could remember like I used to.