I wish to be poetic.

I dream of a world where beauty is found in the words we use rather than the clothes we wear, where joy is extracted from moments perfected by the expression of soul. Yet I'm restlessly awake attempting to assemble assortments of poetic speech, with each ensuing effort reminding me of the difficulties associated with consciousness. As we dream, our fancies become unattached scenes of impulse and curiosity marked not by effort or awareness but by impulse. On the contrary, the alert state that I currently experience is trapped by its own limitations, governed by the restrictive grip of reality. So easily may my dreams come true, yet the shudder that arouses me from my slumber carries with it the sting of forgetfulness. Its as though each night, as I drift into a world of curiosity, I experience the greatest moments only to lose my recollection of their occurrence.

To write as one dreams, without hesitation or need for explanation, passing from thought to thought in detached sequence of impulsive thought with a semblance of coherence, this truly intrigues me.

I'll figure you out yet, dreams, as I furiously strive to recall all which I've come to learn and understand.