My street echoes inside my burrow- reckless, a cacophony of ruin. Birds do not chirp anymore; they have succumbed to modernity. Loud, chaotic. Wails of twisted steel, splitting everything into two, three, four, five, six. I know chaos is what I kept while you yearned for fields of lilies- to discover, to sink gently on, to become.
Yet even in ruin, I hear an echo-soft, familiar. A whisper in the debris, calling me back to something gentler.
I had a dream you came back, and I had stopped snowing inside- my face, my blood, my soul. I pondered within, “How did I slip so far into this abyss?”
I met them, they who scare me, they who told me that “dreams and reality are one and the same.” Really? Are they truly the same?
I know I dream like a sick patient on his deathbed, sucking on words, like gulping his soup with distaste.
At first, I thought they told me my dream would become reality- but alas, I stand corrected. Now, I can see they meant that my dream would become. In truth, dreams unfold endlessly, as you and I dive deeper into their mysteries, where joy lingers in the quietest touches.
Patience.
That dream- the adventure, and our voices, like exuberant, giggling children. You, a vivacious otter; I, a stormfowl of a chicken- enchanting companions who found the meaning of camaraderie in lilies. Oh, how they smell fresh, like late spring- clean, anew, reborn. And you and I dance through the whispering meadow, wandering through the springtime haze. We get lost, but not worried- that is the point!
Now, let’s get into some trouble. The monsters above tell us we don’t have to just exist. Instead, we are here to live. Together.