There is a dreariness in life that seeps inside us. It makes us impervious to any sense of wonder. We long to feel. We desire to feel better. We miss our own smiles. We forget the image that must be revered: the image of Humanity, of hope, of love.
To dream of colour in dreams,
To feel your touch on budding leaves,
And peals of joy in memories,
It is for these that we shall feel closer to ourselves when we try to hold the intangible in our hands, even if for a fleeting moment. Every such fleeting moment connects together to give a flow to our minds caught in the adventure that is life. The uncompromising flow of the river of time, that is.
To dream of rest in dreams,
To teach ourselves the way of our dreams,
It shall be for this that we pursue that which can only be felt, not touched. To feel such is to feel alive, for every sliver of colour that enters our body leaves us colourful. It leaves us nonetheless, but it leaves us with a memory. These are the only moments keeping us in the flow of time.
To dream of dreams,
We go gentle into our dreams. Every colour is gentle, no matter the cause. Every feeling is intangible, no matter the force. Maybe that's why we seem to be attracted to that which reminds us of our impossibility, and things which leave us undone. To feel the desire,
To warm ourselves by the fire,
And to leave our footprints in the mud,
It is for all this that we shall remember how it feels to be barefoot, remembered by the world for our presence and absence alike.
To dream of life,
To dream of that which can only be reached by reaching out,
To dream of ourselves as we see the colours of each other,
It is for all this that we dream.
It is for all this,
That we feel more alive than ever