I meet a lot of people in my dreams

I meet a lot of people in my dreams.

It always goes like this. I would spawn somewhere random, with no idea what's happening, then some nice person will come along and hold my hand, bringing me along with them. I will slowly regain my memories together with them, with little bits of understanding flooding in like a torrent of rainwater.

However, I would wake up before I remembered everything about that place, sometimes in a cold sweat, heart pounding in my chest, other times gradually, the sun shining down on my cheeks in my warm room, slowly remembering the little pieces of my dreams before remembering the most important thing in the world.

There is school tomorrow and there is a high chance that if I continue to stay in bed, I will be late.

So, I tend to forget most of my dreams. There isn't enough time in the morning to properly think through the dreams, for the morning is an endless rush, with thinking a luxury for the busy unthinking, worker ants of society.

Honestly, isn't it quite strange? Humans aren't worker ants, yet here we are, running around in squares and triangles, dancing to the wills and whims of our overlords.

Most people have things that save them from these endless continuations, and luckily for me, mine is my dreams. When I manage to snag a seat, pushing against other tired people, I drift off, my mind wandering to worlds with winged people, each feather painted in a multitude of lovely colours, or large buildings made from cake, with the person leading me in this dream pulling me through large crowds of people with clothes made with candy and other sweet items.

Sometimes there would be a terrifying dream, and I would spend the whole morning trying my best to make them disappear out of my mind, head swirling with the people I lost, the untold stories that I made there screaming in my mind, wanting to be let out into the world to unleash their horrors.

That wasn't very often, thankfully. I wasn't good with horror, something I found out a long time ago.

Then I would write them down somewhere, maybe on my phone or a piece of lovely white paper, then watch them come to life in my head repeatedly as I read them for umpteenth time.

I meet a lot of people in my dreams.

Sometimes, they are kind, taking me through the world and patiently explaining everything in an easy and reliable manner. Other times, only torture and cruelty await me in this long-awaited blessing.

To be honest, I wasn't totally truthful in the previous few paragraphs. My dreams are usually filled with people taking advantage of me, bullying me, blood and more blood flowing through my veins onto the dirty floor below.

The world isn't kind to people who dream to escape, instead bestowing punishment and torture that would run through the minds of those who want just a little bit of salvation. It's boring to be awake, and torturous to be asleep. Unaware of the surroundings that surround me, waiting for me to close my eyes only to kill me in my sleep.

But don't worry.

As long as I wake up, everything will be fine.

I have never understood positive people.

They seem to have it all in the palm of their hands, like everything flows easily and naturally to a conclusion that will fit them. For me, it feels like a constant torrent of water splashing down on my body, each drop like a needle piercing my flesh and rendering me nothing but a skeleton of my previous self.

Yet, my escape is still so painful and scarring, that sometimes, I don't know which one truly is the best way to escape from everything.

Would dying then be the natural conclusion?

Truth be told, sleeping sometimes feels like dying. It's just that for sleep, you wake up. Dying is a privilege given by the heavens to us ants on the ground, the only way to escape from the purgatory that is life.

Constantly balancing on a tightrope, leaning every so often to look at the lava below in fear of what would happen. So we cling on to the rope, unaware that the lava is only an illusion designed to keep us afraid and running.

Only by falling down are we truly ever free, finally left to ourselves to design a fate worth living, wherever we end up.

I meet a lot of people in my dreams.

By now, most of the people reading this would've stopped. So, for the people who have made it this far, I'll let you in on a little secret.

Death is dreams is surprisingly normal.

In my dreams, death is just death. You die, the world blacks out, and that's it. Except, sometimes I wake up back in the dream, a little before I die, just trying my best to survive.

Sometimes, I wonder whether every part of my life is truly just that.

What happens if instead of dying, I'm actually just forgetting my previous deaths and walking away from the things that caused me to die in the first place?

What is truly the reality that we are in right now? Why are most of my memories blurry?

I remember things others do not, yet nothing that others do. Like a piece of glass that can only be scratched by a fingernail, the markings left on me are the only things that define me as a person.

However, if nobody else can leave a marking on me, am I really a person?

It's like I'm living in a bubble full of only my thoughts and nothing else. I can't get out, you can't get in, we're both strangers separated by a bubble.

Eventually, you're going to leave, and I'm going to be stuck here for the rest of my life, alone.

Like we all are in the end.

I meet a lot of people in my dreams.

I hope you don't have to.