Dreamland

Off all things we do in this life, the most magical of it is to dream. 

We dream all the time about when we will actually feel happy or accomplished. 

We dream about success, special moments with the ones we love, and millions of things I could come up with right now. We dream about things, about people, about situations we create on our minds... 

Life comes up with the most boring and ridiculous reality and rub it on our faces every day, from the time we wake up til the time we go to bed, but the ones who doesn't have a bed, well, they dream about it too. 

We spend our lives imagining an ideal scenario where our problems doesn't exist, where we're actually and truly fulfilled. 

And that's the problem. 

That's a monster who comes from under the bed with the cloak of frustration all around it.

It's difficult to love life in its raw form, pure and simply hard... Life is tremendously honest with us. It doesn't even leave lies hidden for too long. 

The power of life upon us is truth. That's our leash ans shackles. And dreams allow us to run form it for a while, at least on our heads, which makes us hostages on our own mind... 

How can we live in real life, all the time, sober and without a single fucking dream to delude us from the hell it can be sometimes (a lot of times)? 

No wonder why so many people use drugs, alcohol, a brunette... Because these things keep the dreaming land alive. 

I don't know why life needs to be so...real.

Damn, it's rough... 

I keep dreaming about my camp house, A framed, horses running on the patio and the greenest grass that could ever exist. I dream about the woods around, the waterfall close to it, the simple life I could live on the countryside with a baby on my arms, while bae is cooking something that smells so good for dinner... But when I wake up, I see my life how it is right now and I feel like I would have to make a miracle for it to happen that way. It may not even be possible, even being a simple dream. 

Dreaming maybe is making me weaker, as I should be able to see life how it is without thinking or wishing the best of it. 

It's just too hard. In reality my A framed house is on fire and I'm walking alone while my shouting ecos in the woods... 

What saves us from this hellhole without dreaming is the relationships we build, the moments we live with people we love. And that's literally all we've carrying to the grave. Not even our bodies belong to us in the end. 

Dreaming is crafty, as it can make us think we have good reasons to keep on trying. 

But how Belchior loved real life so much? How did he manage so much frustration, ache and pain?
Sometimes I almost understand him... 

With only a few genuine happy moments, we become able to appreciate life the way we supposed to. As if it doesn't happen a lot, we surely value them the most. 

That's a tricky rhetorical. 

That's a mean paradigm. 

That's beautiful and a tragedy at the same time. 

Dreaming is a door we can enter to visit our wildest thoughts, where we can be ourselves without fear. 

Dreaming is necessary to get to the end of this fucking crazy experience. Without dreaming, there's no life.