Dream Out of the Written

Sometimes, you know how it feels to be alive. To be breathing deep, breathing in air into the lungs of yours. Sometimes, you know how it feels to be dead. Heart shattered into pieces, unsure to be picked up again. Sometimes, you know how it felt to dream, A dream within the papers you hold, a dream within the ink shown. What is it? What is it about? I asked. And you replied, you answered me, You said the dream you had was far from what we know. You said it was colorful. You said it was dull. You said it was horrible, You said it was merry. You said it was about love, About pain, vengeance, Of joy, passion, excitement, Of power, justice, foulness. And all what you could and could not imagine, All what you could and could not describe. And then you said, It was very, very long, Yet it was short, as if it was just seconds. But it held something, Something much greater than it seems. Something we felt in that dream. From the adventures you had, The loss, the gains. You wanted to go back, Back to the dream you just had, To watch them grow over and over again, To be happy again with them, To mourn the fallen again with them, To step on to that piece of land again with them. And then you said, That you felt alive, Just like we are now, But fulfilled by something, Something you felt in that marvelous dream. What is it? What is it? I asked. You said, You did not know. But on those papers, Within those ink, the symbols, The dream lasts for centuries, It was tasted by millions and millions of men, women, children. Tasted from the past years, the present, And will be in the unknown of time. They felt the same feeling, The fulfillment you had. You told me, Have a slight bite of it whenever I want, Because later on, if possible, You will start gobbling up, You will see what those millions and millions of people see, You will see life, death, See grief, joy, See anger, peace, Beautiful things, Tragedies, As if you had actually been there, And you will be fulfilled, Like all the others are. And so am I.