Real Life Dreams

I am a cosmic child of the universe, comprised of stardust and dreams. 

Some dreams are tangible, realistic, within reach – magical moments endured daily, like the sun kissing my bare skin. Some dreams are for an alternate version of myself, in a dimension where anything is possible – like touching the moon, or becoming the moon. 

And one day, whether I am my current earthling self or residing as a droplet of water in another universe, I will achieve them all. 

Before the sun explodes and swallows space in its entirety. 

I dream of summer days spent at crystal beaches, feeling the coastal breeze on my wet skin. I dream of pink skies and a warm breeze that makes it hard to tell where your body stops and the outside world starts. I dream of seeing new colours. I dream of sitting on the top of the pyramids of Giza while the sun sets, painting the city in autumn tones. I dream of finding the happiness I have been pretending to have. I dream of shape-shifting. I dream of burning. I dream of being infinite, kind, beautiful, complete. I dream of relishing in solitude, and feeling comfortable in silence. I dream of being re-born. I dream of waking up to good morning kisses from my little dog’s wet nose on my chin. I dream of growing taller. I dream of being a fairy, a nymph, an elf. I dream of holding hands with every person on this planet. I dream of having porridge for breakfast, every morning, for the rest of my life. I dream of transcending flesh. I dream of being in love with life on earth as myself. I dream of magic. I dream of chasing citrus cake with mouthfuls of warm coffee, book in hand, on my front porch, on a spring evening where time does not exist. I dream of being a cloud. I dream of writing a book. I dream of existing in the void. I dream of having a lavender bush in my front garden. I dream of falling in love. I dream of feeling like I belong. I dream of not feeling repulsed by my own skin. I dream of running away. I dream of starring in a blockbuster movie. I dream of being rotten. I dream of not made to endure this chaotic shell on this infantilised planet again. I dream of sitting on the balcony of a fancy bedroom with French windows, on a white cast-iron chair, wearing nothing but a silk robe, cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, spying on neighbours and writing poetry with a red pen. I dream of existing. I dream of adopting a pet rat and naming her Venus. I dream of growing wings. I dream of being an alien, a computer, a snake, a single leaf on an ancient tree. I dream of ascending to the astral planes. I dream of being small, tucked into my small bed, being read bed time stories on a school night, the air smelling of dust, the taste of warm milk on my tongue. I dream of pistachio ice-cream cones consumed in cobble-stone streets in the back end of Paris. I dream of the face in the ceiling.

I

dream

of

you.