Sometimes I find myself staring at paper.
I feel the need to convey thoughts to words, but my mind will not allow my hand to move as fluid as it should. Eventually, random words are thrown together haphazardly, awaiting the moment I cross them out again. On numerous occasions, I pretend I'll try again later. As much as I hate admitting it, in no way can I string words together to tell a story as much as my mind can in dreams.
I guess that's just it: I'm a dreamer.
I can't say anything I dream of will be particularly interesting or relevant, but they're my thoughts and no one elses. I can hide them away somewhere in my mind, where no one else can steal them. I can share them and let people get a glimpse into my world if I wanted.
They are my dreams to cautiously and sparingly let one-track minds see.
Maybe if I openly let people into my dreams to see the world as I do, they can see myself behind it all.

They are my dreams, afterall.