Boys and Girls Who Dream And They Die

These days I often find myself lying on my pristine rock, hard bed thinking about why the world would ever care about someone like me. I wonder how my thoughts ever drifted this far. Maybe social media? Or my own self-conceit, brimming with forbidden passions even van Gogh or Picasso couldn't imagine. Yet, I only say that because I can't imagen them either. I'm a washed up never-has-been. What I can't figure out is why I even care. Daring to dream is supposed to be a good thing, or so my childhood memories tell me. Then why is it that these days dreams only come in the form of nightmares? They cloak themselves in fire-roasted s'mores, the smell of freshly baked homemade bread, and thin mint girl scout cookies. But underneath that mouth-rotting exterior is a rotting interior - evidence of one of life's well known facts - the exterior tends to exude what the interior feels. My interior switches between the kind of fear that would make a grown man go numb, and the kind of numbness that even Elsa couldn't create. I sigh (something I also do a lot of these days) and close my eyes, and hope to dream of dreams better than the reality I call Hansel and Gretel