From the second I slipped out of my mother's womb till the day I take my final breath, whisper the words of heaven and allow the sunlight to laze upon my cheeks as death consumes me, I'm still a dreamer. I wake up each morning with every vivid detail and trivia thought about my dream which still lingers on. As I leave my scent behind, allowing it to clothe my bed, these little followers take on my trail, like tiny creatures I store in my back pocket and only take them out when there's nothing left to speculate about. Depending on its size of its mark it has left in my mental shell, I can choose to dwell on it, or not.

But these were to be shattered in seconds. I should have seen it coming.You walked right in and smashed my dreams that were carefully crafted out of mere heartfelt sentiments of sorrow, enmity, bliss and affection. I did line up a sign outside my door which read 'Fragile: Handle with care', didn't I? But apathy swallowed you like a wild fire gorging down on Mt.Soufriere, like a pin lost in a raging sea. I stood there, forlorn and unforgiving, carefully trying to piece them all back together. Yet you stood there unmoving, mocking me, were you?

But I see now. I see clearly the entire picture. I let my dreams wander off and I wasn't aware that it had started to invade your space. Unconsciously, it started to play with your beliefs, made a wreck out of it and silently hoped to leave nothing but its worth. You went mad, so damn. I told you once -- 'I have your best interests at heart.' But I failed to live up to my promise and testimony. I shattered my dreams, I have speared your hopes for me, a complete fool I've become. You say, I'm depreciating myself? Perhaps not. I say, righteous judgement. You came clean with me, like you usually do, and made me see the truth&reality that laid between your intolerance and my idiocy. Down on my knees, I sincerely thank you for putting up with me. You left me with two words in my head, 'Get real.' No... three, 'Get real, Pris.'

In exchange, 'For you I will.'

From the corner of my eye. I saw you scribbling a note-- on a napkin, with that bronze pen of yours. The one you always used to highlight your philosophy notes. You folded the napkin, hesitated and threw it into a bin. We stayed till 4am in the morning, flipping pages, sipping hot chocolate, licking sauce off a butter knife. The world was asleep, so still that I could hear the silence buzzing in my ear. Have you heard that before? It's painful.

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Blood shed, made real so you and I;
could maybe live longer than we should.
And now we can sit here and pray,
please help me see the secrets of this world,
forlorn and unforgiving.

A fable of tables, a mystery of sorts,
has led to what they call the odds;
or some say, god.

Some bleed, others die and even more begin to suffer,
despite our will to help,
regenerate the truth is all we really should do,
is pray;
for better or worse.