I grasp for the unattainable in my novels, in the mild, irrational hope that I depart with some appealing, irrevocable knowledge to sustain my utterly boring life. I drink it up heartily, as only a dreamer can do. And I am such a dreamer, whiling away hours contemplating my existence in a seemingly perfect world, my soul mate at my side. We finish each other, and I am blissfully content and peaceful, so long as he holds me bindingly. Every thought I have is reciprocated in his very mind, and we finish each other without knowledge of our origination. I am ecstatically happy, and meaningful love is no longer a foreign emotion read about in novels. I have the true thing, so dreaming is no longer a prerequisite. It is optional. In this oblivion I find myself often, but I make no complaints. I willingly yield myself to the spontaneity of a different realm, and let too perfect visions seek me out to console my need for extraordinary. Some say dreams are a waste of life, but I know differently. Dreams form one’s life, what they stand for, and what they wish to obtain, and only the weak and unknowing shy away from their ambiance. Instead of countering their feeble claims, I pity them, their ignorance, and especially, the immense gift they are missing out on, by harassing those pertinent dreamers. Sometimes it is simply better to surrender your mind to something above the obvious monotonous turmoil breaching the world. It is better to escape to a happy place, where no person can touch you, and multitudes of personal angels can. Sigh in pure, unadulterated satisfaction, it is okay. Just don’t take it for granted, and forget to live-however sparingly.