When I slept I didn’t dream; but when I was awake, it was all I did.
When the pain felt by this body was too much to bear, I left it. My soul left it. This shell of a person roamed on auto-pilot as I watched from a distance, in disdain, from the corner of my eye; and I dreamed.
I dreamed of the life I had hoped, the love I had wanted.
Dreams don’t hurt, they shouldn’t hurt. They are the empty canvases for our inner naive self, a slightly real manifestation of hope. You feel blissful as you sleep, and hopeful when you wake.
But lucid dreams hurt. Being consciously aware of the half-state you are in, knowing whatever it is you’re experiencing isn’t real, and will never be real/real. You want to fall back asleep, or at least wake up.
Today I finally woke up. Today I woke up tired. But for the first time, just physically not emotionally.
For the first time, I’ve empathised without subsuming the emotion as my own, or mistaking it as mine. Because some moments never end.
Perhaps empathy is putting on the lens through which others see, but remembering to take them off.