A fantasy is like the warmest blanket in the cosiest bed,
so warm and forgiving and wonderful and tender.
Your deepest desires, expressed in the confines of your mind,
will never berate or betray you.
In them, you can empty yourself. To pour your being
into your imagination is to separate thought from flesh,
bourn from blood.
I have discovered it is possible to exist with a body that feels completely hollow.
Life on autopilot. Driving in your dreams,
the world blurs past on your road to nowhere.
You're not very present, you're neither
there. Here. Or now.
You're someone else entirely in your head.
Is it ego? Are you cursed? Whatever happened to you?
Where did you go?
Your dreams demand more of you than reality.
When prompted to speak, you can.
You move. Walk. To nonexistent destinations.
Forever lost, but nobody seems to know the directions.
How does one awake from a waking dream?
My dreams enable me to dream,
when I lie still in bed at night. Thinking.
I experience more of reality when asleep.
When I wake up,
I dream of having better dreams.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem