In the morning: moaning, sore, out of breath,
fading specters of sleep--feeling tired as death.
What did I dream of?
In the dead of the night,
in the breadth without light,
what did I dream of?
I dreamed of everything and nothing
(everything is nothing in my sleep,
at least that's how everything seems
when chasing after fading dreams).
In the dark behind my eyelids,
in the lies I hide in darkness, rises
memories of dreams.
I dreamed of car crashes; casseroles;
Gandalf; and guacamole, chips, and salsa
forming battle lines in front of me.
I dreamed of living in anemones--
oh wait, that's Finding Nemo.
Don't you see, though?
I dreamed of everything and nothing.
On the TV she says follow your dreams.
What the hell does that mean?
How do we measure success?
Is it measured in sex?
Is it measured in money,
career, or units of family?
If it is I have failed indeed--
I've done nothing good, you see:
I've loved no Eurydice,
fought no Thermopylae,
climbed up no Pyrenees,
trained like no Hercules,
I have lived uselessly.
God, are you kidding me--
follow your dreams?
I have none.
I have one.
I want to sleep without dreams,
I want to be without dreams,
I want to wake without dreams
that make everything seem
like a shadowy sheen
has been dropped on all things.
I want to sleep without dreams
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