I have daydreams of a far-off place, in the company of people I don’t know. I swear they could be memories or premonitions, and whether they surface by intense nostalgia or a deep yearning, I can never tell. There is an ache in my chest, a void left by a missing past and a promise of the future.
Do you dream of transcendence? Do you dream of a planet whose only landmass is a giant strip of shoreline? Do you dream of lost gardens, of the drowning sun witnessed from a third floor window? Of breathing in the fog-blanketed mountain top air, air like whispers from the mouth of a grieving world, air so thin it stings your lungs, leaving tattoos in the shape of the life we ought to live? Do you dream of silence? Of synchronized heartbeats? Of untamed emotion? Of release and catharsis?
Do you dream of the complex societal machinery where true love is the most potent renewable resource, where the cogs that push humanity further into the unknown are fueled by high-octane unleaded empathy and compassion?
Do you dream that one day, we will take matters into our own hands, and fight tooth and nail for the things we believe in? That one day, all question marks will shed their curls, and all voids in our chests will cement into periods, and we will declare with full confidence that, yes, dreams do come true.
I’ve convinced myself that fantasy is to be found elsewhere, always forgetting that fantasy is not about escaping reality but dwelling excessively within it, where curiosity and wonder build the mundane anew. The tired mind consciously hallucinates, places Instagram filters, augments reality through virtual headsets, forgetting about the fire in our veins and the mythos of our stellar heritage.
And yet the pain remains, a cancer of the soul that refuses to let go, no matter how many times I’ve tried to fill it. How does one cure a black hole? You don’t; space would certainly have less secrets without it.