Our mind is so
mysterious at night.
It travels to someplace
far away
and come back before
we can even realize.
We don’t remember
the journey,
neither the space-time
continuum in which
we’ve been projected.
At times I ask myself
if my real life is
the one I live in my
dreams.
If what we call reality
is in reality a dream.
We are just wanderers
searching for a place to call
ours.
We are not at home
in our own homes.
When we lay in bed
at night
we seek something
in which we’ll fit.
Something that will suit us
perfectly.
And then we wake up.
Our shelter cracks
and we are driven
into our miserable lives.
Again.
So what is the
aim of all that
wandering?