Dreams are made of stuffs sold on streets. Days when desolation has afflicted one, dream's world would be as clear as a story woven craftily, by the greatest of raconteurs, pleating the vicissitudes of life in proper places.
The run of the dream leaves one exhausted, eaten up by something. With open eyes, there is no reason to budge, no motivation to live.
But, the days that have been happy, dreams are confused, lacking any particular course. As if, multiples strands of dream are chasing each other in different directions and none of it becomes clear. This chase, however, doesn’t eat one up, but rather gives one a sense of purpose, to chase randomness, to chase the world. The dreams, are made of the stuffs sold in markets, and they get exhausted, get old or plain irrelevant. What remains then is nothing but the days of different dreams, made of surreptitious desires lying hidden in the dark corners during the day, playing havoc at night!
The run of the dream leaves one exhausted, eaten up by something. With open eyes, there is no reason to budge, no motivation to live.
But, the days that have been happy, dreams are confused, lacking any particular course. As if, multiples strands of dream are chasing each other in different directions and none of it becomes clear. This chase, however, doesn’t eat one up, but rather gives one a sense of purpose, to chase randomness, to chase the world. The dreams, are made of the stuffs sold in markets, and they get exhausted, get old or plain irrelevant. What remains then is nothing but the days of different dreams, made of surreptitious desires lying hidden in the dark corners during the day, playing havoc at night!
1 comment:
Loved reading this..especially liked 'With open eyes, there is no reason to budge, no motivation to live.' Totally agree!
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