how wonderful it is to be granted the license to dream. how interesting life is when there are visions of endless possibilities. where there are no limits. where the road spans as far and wide as the skies.
i spent the evening with pen and paper. as planes taxi and take off in the background, as my hot tea cooled, as i lay my head upon an elbow, i wrote a sad poem. about what it would be like not to be able to dream. if this is it. and this is all there is to it. no vision. no future. nothing further than now.
could i be just content with this constant? where does my imagination play now, when it has flirted and romantisised with blissful dreams for so damn long? could i bind my heart to just this cold reality, and… and… and… nothing else? to not even dare a grain of something sweeter? to kill all hope altogether?