Everywhere she looked, people were staring at her. Everyone she talked to got the same glazed look, the laughter. She pulled her feet closer to her, sitting against a tree trunk outside the tavern. Her skirt carelessly splayed out next to her, a book in her lap. Her hair was disheveled, what could be was tucked behind her ears as she leaned over the book penciling in her thoughts. (the writing on the left side of the page *shown in pink* is more controlled, whereas the writing on the right side *shown in red* seems more chaotic, as if written with a shaking hand)
The Struggle.
Tell me this, what is a dream?
Dreams are but a fantasy for the weak,
to escuse what they can never have.
Dreams are the reason why people keep on living!
People keep living, fighting through everyday life,
Hoping and dreaming for better things.
Maybe, but dreams are futile,
Tell me this…
Is a dream what one has at night
The mind incoherent for tomorrow.
Or is a dream…
A figment of your imagination,
Created by a higher power, to spite humanity.
Could a dream be one’s hopes for the future,
a subconscious stream of thoughts, flowing
Or crashing and thrashing.
Is a dream the seeming perfection of all things
one experiences in books
Knowing full well reality is bursting on your door.
Aspirations, Hopes!
Another petty thing waiting to crush you.
Is a dream when one grows and leaves the house?
Or is the real dream what shatters when
They can never come home again.
