And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
I wonder if all that I am, and all that I ever will be, is a dream within a dream.
I am after all, a meticulous machine. I am a work of art, crafted by the love child of a mad scientist and a brilliant philosopher. My two creators often wage war between the spaces of my ribs and the bruises under my eyes, attempting to take any part of me and make it their own. I have been poked and prodded by needles that try and inject me with some sort of artificial happiness my body can’t help but reject. My mind is a frenzy of questions, begging my soul to answer them.
My heart, my veins, my organs, they all dance to the same melody. It is one I used to know as a child, familiar and soothing. They spin and dip at precisely the right moments, making sure I can feel the caress of a lover’s touch and the lick of a burning flame, and be able to tell the difference. But sometimes, the music halts suddenly, and like a broken record, I am left replacing the same melody over and over until it becomes a haunting trick of fate, a punishment for all the hearts I’ve stolen and all the souls I’ve broken.
I used to think I was too perfect to be a product of reality.
With my sunset orbs that are able to see beauty, pain, and regret, I watch the pitiless waves of the ocean kiss the shore. I see now that my eyes are a curse, drawing in love that I know I will never be able to understand. There must have been an error in my formation, some sort of glitch that separated me from the core of humanity, for I have always seen love as cruel and kindness as weakness.
My mind must have been moulded in a misty world covered in stardust. I am a living contradiction, fire and water, silk and sword, nothing and everything. I am shutting out emotion until ice replaces my blood, freezing out memories until I am so deep into my pain that I become numb. And I am an all encompassing love, combining lust, infatuation, and admiration in a heartbreak bound passage.
I am a red rose, enchanting at first, my petals seducing trembling fingertips and leaving my event upon their collarbones for days. I sometimes forget that I am bound to wilt, and when I do, you’ll wish you had never touched me.
They used to tell me I should be careful of twisted fingers that crawl into the bodies of young girls, stripping them completely of their innocence. I’m starting to think maybe my innocence was gone before I could understand what it was.
My body is a hotel room, a weekend getaway where lovers go to forget reality and enter a world of make believe. I have grown accustomed to a few nights of contact until the inevitable realization occurs – that they want to go home. It happens to everyone, they miss the comfort of their bed and the perfect water pressure in the shower they’ve had for years. And so they go, leaving my doors open for another visitor, another stranger,
I have created a world of my own, of dreams and illusions. It is the only place I can exist.
I am a dream within a dream, and perhaps that is why the rest of this logic filled world does not understand me.