Dreams. Nightmares. Unforgettable nights of longing for the things so far away. For the things that scare me. Pleasant tales of love, overthrown by stories of hell itself - all unfolding around my bed. My red sheets are the bloodstains on the gray wall one night, a bouquet of roses the next.
What are dreams? Imaginary places of make-believe happiness, as if some form of natural prozac? Realms where fantasy is pushed beyond the borders of our very imagination?
I can't tell. I don't want to. My dreams are chapters of the book of my life, they're the red ribbon on the edge of the next page. Never managed to do much reading with my eyes open. Why, God why, would anyone want to live in something as shallow as reality?
Being awake is torture. It's a red car flashing over the gray asphalt, it's the fast lane with me behind the wheel - pointless and fatal. I never got my license, you know. And for good reason; I don't want to control things. I don't need any kind of control, all I need pure freedom.
The doctor once told me I had insomnia. Rarely ever in my life have I hated someone that much, that my vision blurred to red. But even that didn't last long.
Four hours ago, the doctor said I passed away in my sleep.
I just died a dreamer.