I hate dreams.

I hate the insidious way it comes when you’re at your weakest point, unable to defend yourself from your own subconscious.

Happy dreams. Sad dreams. Scary dreams.

Oh. No. I like Scary dreams. They make you glad that shit ain’t real when you wake up. Unless, you slept beside an Edo girl in which case, the dream would be real. Obviously.

But that’s beside the point. It’s the happy dreams I hate.

I hate the light and joy I feel, sucked into this big, big lie. It’s like living a double life. One where you’re all great and your life is all figured out. One where you’re in love and your smile is always beautiful, even with your crooked and yellowed teeth. One where the people who hurt you never did and they still love you just as much as the day they started loving you. One where he holds you close and then from clap, you enter dance, if you know what i mean.
One where you’re not sick. One where you’ve food to eat (which may double as a nightmare).
One where you have the dream job you always wanted. See the pun?

You’re all clueless, sucked into the madness that is the world your mind has so fashioned to punish you with for the night.

And then, the neighbour decides to close his door a bit too loudly and suddenly, the magic is shattered.

Like Cinderella, after the stroke of midnight, you’re back to your real self, all alone on a double bed, nearing forty with no real goals in life.

It’s that first five seconds of that emptiness you feel, eyes still heavy with sleep. Heart becomes so heavy, you want to cry. And you may even cry. It’s allowed
You may then want to put a new spin on it, that maybe God is trying to tell you something. But you and I know God isn’t trying to telling you, you’re finally going to get laid. That’s just you boo-boo.

Happy dreams suck.

End of.

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