The Pursuit of Dreams

There is a universe inside the mind;
Seldom ventured, except behind closed portals,
The windows to reality.
But what is reality?
That which we feel, and taste, and breathe, and live,
Or that which makes us who we are?
And what are we but tainted expressions of ideal,
Warped images of that which we dare to dream,
But not quite.
And is a dream not but a world inside a world of flesh and blood,
Which cannot die, unless flesh and blood pass away?
Yet dreams are more than hazy bedtime stories
Which fill the gap from dusk to dawn.
Dreams are existences,
Woven from pleasure and pain, hope and despair,
Founded in fear and folly, hate and love,
and littered with memories;
Memories are but lucid dreams burned into the mind,
Fastened to reminiscent tendencies,
Thoughtful recollections of reality,
Lived through life.
And what is life, but the pursuit of dreams.
-mattieu dominic-