We all have dreams, I suppose. So they say. At night, we relive our day—at least, the subconscious’ understanding of it. Or perhaps an old memory revisits us, though whether of joy, sorrow, or terror, none can predict.

We all have dreams, they say. Why then do I lie wakeful at night, with the darkness of sleep almost upon me? Waiting for—what, I know not, if I’ve ever known. And when I, weariness overtaking me, release my hold on the waking world—it is suddenly morning, and I have slept without rest.

How? They say we all have dreams.

I wander through my day in an unshakeable fog, a cloaking haze of weariness. The world is reduced to shades of grey, as my internal struggle becomes simply the need to stay present, when all I crave is oblivion.

Yet they say we all have dreams.

Dimly, I can sense others going, coming, leaving, searching—yet always chasing. What? I do not know, I have never known…

Even though they say we all have dreams.