Dreams colour everything. They stain the walls and the sky, they tint the skin, they coat your words in memory and dye your thoughts with fantasy.
I don’t know how to unlive them, how to make them ethereal, meaningless. I try. It feels like trying to banish death.
Growing up, I had books instead of friends. In class, they’d call me a murderer’s son, and on the playground they didn’t waste words.
That’s not an invitation for sympathy or pity; I long ago made peace with it. It’s what happened. It’s the past.
But through the years there were always dreams, and nothing anyone said or did could ever be as isolating. Nothing could ever come close. Nothing ever has.
I’m tired and I want to sleep, but I’m not ready to close my eyes again. Maybe when it’s morning.