Sadness shook the unconsciousness away and tears began to fall at 4am that morning. It seemed almost futile to go back to sleep so a hot breakfast seemed well-suited for the current occasion.
30g of porridge with 1/3 cup of soymilk and 2/3 cup water. Standard.
It was that fucking dream again. The one where the dreamer was a child and was taken away from the comfort of her childhood bed to be left at an orphanage. This was a reoccurring dream since the age of eight - it keeps coming back - and it won't let me grow up.
As the years fall behind, many other dreams manifest themselves from the new experiences and expectations which pop up in time. But somehow, those other dreams were never feasible and only crumble between my fingers the harder I try to hold on to them (like feta cheese).
I finished my breakfast. It was 4.20am.
I listened to Coldplay's "Charlie Brown" to pass the time.
In my scarecrow dreams
when they smash my heart into smithereens
be a bright red rose come burst through the concrete
be a cartoon heart
light a fire, fire the spark
light a fire flame in my heart
It meant so much but helped so little. Oh how symbolisms can only bring meaning but not healing. By the end of the song, I wondered how many more fallen dreams could I take...
...but I then reminded myself that there were other hearts out there which were more severed than mine. Just like how the lyrics could only bring meaning, my orphan dream could only bring sadness...but not hurt me. Dreams are not reality; they are mere untruths which exist in the individual heads of dreamers.
There was a lot more to smile about by 7am because consciousness invited no dreams and reality was allowed to run its course.
Somewhere the streets are made of gold...
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