I wish I could still workout without dying of a heart attack. Now I just feel uncomfortable in my own skin, drained from work, and wishing I wasn’t this waste of space.
Dreaming is just a look into my own emotion.
From strange worlds and impossible beings, it’s not what it seems. They show me what I want, hidden in the most complex of ways.
From everyday life with roles changed. They show me what could have been if I had said something a little sweeter.
From hellish nightmares that show my demons in physical form.
From that one dream that I have at least once a night. Where I can just grab one instance of happiness, only to have it crushed once I wake up in bed alone.
From these dreams I find all I could never gain. The only thing these are good for is a way to read through these bottled up emotions, without opening them. A way to organize things just enough to see how I honestly feel. Still, sometimes I wish I didn’t know how much I’m bottling up.