Dreaming Kills Us

From the minute we were born, we were given something. Even if the rest of our lives was going to be nothing but a long row of trials, a long row of late night tears, of misery, of self-pity... of dwelling on our guilt, or the one we imagine that we possess. Dwelling on all the feelings in the half of the spectrum that qualifies under torment. Under torture. Under the headline starting with any other word beginning with a T. And maybe those of us who dwelled the most, those who had to live through the worst, used that something the best... and made the most of it.
We never realize it's there.
We use it, every day, to escape, to try and forget the fact that in the end all the ones of us who are too emotional, too empathic, are all just like Izzie, lying on the bedroom floor. You can be in shock. You can have the salt running down your face without knowing why. Without being able to say. But you're there, nonetheless, you're on that floor, in your fancy dress, and blind to all that try and persuade you that your dress has filled its function, that you can't wear it any more.
And you refuse to take it off. Because you know, that the second you do, you have to land again, right back into reality, right back into duties, into practical. That fancy dress, that mask of yours, has to go back on some shelf, and will be forgotten. It will keep that scent. Keep everything about it that made you still close, that made you still surreal.
If you give up that dress, you give up on hope. You give up on what made you dream. You give in, to what the world will try to make of you, another cog in the machinery, another part of the big picture to make it all run smoothly. The world wants you to believe that you're vital. And that you'll make a difference. That someone will know whether you are here or if you're not.
But the only ones who will notice, you will always be uncapable of seeing. They'll all be invisible to you, and you'll always be invisible to them.
Or at least in your eyes.
We dream.
We dream because that's what we were meant to do.
We were never supposed to make some machinery run, or to go through our lives on routine... avoiding to hope and to nurture our visions of the future, because we were too afraid to be burned again, too afraid to be hurt.
Those who really suffer... those who have really sacrificed themselves to the world... to what they are expected to be... are the ones who never dream. Those who have forgotten what it does to you to drift away, forgetting, soaking yourself in everything that wasn't here, that wasn't real, that wasn't now.
That said... dreaming will never come easily.
Dreaming kills us, day by day, making us believe things that will never come true, making us believe we can hold on to something. To anything.
Anything that will hold us away from what pains us.
And then we fall.
We crash down, and we fall.
It hurts. It hurts like hell. And none of us knows how to live with it. None of us knows how the hell we're gonna make it through another day, when just breathing is hard enough, when all we want to do is to give up, to cave in, to sleep... to disappear.
It costs to chase a dream. Some of us don't even know what we want. What we desire. We're left in constant confusion, and constant ponder and worry. Maybe, for us, that cost grows rapidly, with every step we take, with every hesitation.
Or maybe the ability to dream, and to fall by the hands of it, is the very cost in itself...
POET in the Dreamy JAR