Sometimes I find it hard not to wonder if
This is the real dream because
I’ve accomplished too much so suddenly and
I’ve been taught to question myself.
People say it’s not so strange, because it’s hard
Not to let minds wander too much,
Though I still question my sanity at late hours of the night
And try to distract myself with stories I’ve memorized a million times over.
Sometimes those stories would sneak into my dreams,
Infecting them with elements of adventure I’ve always wished for.
Sometimes I can still describe old dreams and I think it may be a result of never really having them anymore.
So I store memories I don’t really need and revisit them when I find it hard to stop feeling so bitter as if I have something to complain about.
My friends have always been scared this was a dream, but I can hardly tell the difference anyway.