About my Dreams

I often wonder how I can be a stranger in my own skin. Or an imposter, a fraud, a fake. Sometimes I feel so far down that I start to feel like I am not who I think I am. The doubt sets in, the constant picking on the flaws, the self-hatred. And it weighs down like a metal blanket over my body pinning me down for what feels like indefinitely. But somehow I manage to get back up. It's a nice climb, but I always worry when the next time I'll go down again is. It's inevitable with me, but it doesn't get any easier. I always end up wanting to curl up, to hide, to forget about the stresses that the world puts on us, on me, and sleep and dream of anything happy that will let out all the bad and hope that some good can find it's way in. I like the illusion of good that comes from my dreams. It often manifests itself as a companion, an extension of myself that gives me the courage to stare into oblivion and smile because I know that what I see isn't real at all but it gives me the greatest sense of calm.