Always stuck between dreaming and feeling the weight of reality on my being.
I don’t know if the realism and the dreaming ever intertwine, perhaps they don’t. Are they two sincere moments of existing that may merely compliment each other?
Perhaps these two words are not enough to explain the feeling of dysphoria that they present to me time and time again.
When I dream and I blink I think things are after me. Really.
I dream of a chase that I can never quite understand.
What am I chasing? Why?
These questions are always formulated in my head. Always lingering when I feel as though I may have caught that thing, that concept, that emotion… or whatever it is.
When I’m in the realm of realism, I feel the most alive that I can ever feel.
I feel the hurt of the world, the pain and the agony of those who suffer. I feel all of the things that I shall never wish for even the worst of enemies to experience.
I tend to always understand and conceptualize the world this way.
What a way to live, though if I weren’t to feel any of this, who am I to even exist?