If dreams occur because reality shifts into sequences and give a human being series of the strange specific pathway to open the doors of truth over desires and fantasy over morality that sometimes predicts the future of someone, it may look like something out of a classic painting, or Van Gogh's, or Breton's manifesto surrealism or even the impressionist Claude Monet — or simply falling off a building.

Though in dreams, someone will say it is their escapade, their haven, their call of past, their deja vus and jamais vu — but the occurrence of dreams are a horror to someone. And that someone is me.

Nobodies are like masses of droplets of raindrops collapsing on the ground and vanishing like smoke; they lit as the fire and at the same time, water as it is called the rain. Nobodies are treated as no faces in a dream. They represent the being of a human in the realm of this world. Sometimes, they are the persona of our hidden self, sometimes, they are feelings, a place, or a person.

Although nobodies can have faces, it is often that they remain clueless and distinct faces. Faint like a whisper, their touch is almost as the ghostly one and in the gist of it, it is as if they never touch us.

And we forget about their existence. I wonder if nobodies are considered to exist in our realm but are used as a subject to define meanings behind our waking life?

I want to be somebody in someone's waking life. To escape the amenities of the horror the somebodies are facing. I want to be there to breathe a small fresh air and be like a little fairy guiding someone who lost their way.

I guess then in dreams, nobodies want to escape too.

It was a blurry reflection I saw in the clouds,
it was clear in the sky and as if I was facing my own body —
my legs can barely walk, my hands were trembling
and I can only open my mouth to breathe.

Though there are birds who prey on me, my wings have kept me on guard
and I stood still, alone, with my legs broken
and of little faith.

The world bestowed upon me was ruthless for someone as dreamy and a little in love as me —
I wish that sometimes I can be as hard as a rock,
so the world can see how cruel I am to her
and give me something that I can call a spark of joy.

I have beheaded myself from having to only daydream about falling in love, I have disconnected the veins flowing around my heart —
so it won't feel anything, but even the day sets down and night comes up,
I would still be in love and be of little faith, that I, part of a million particles living in on this earth — can still be held by a man whom I hold on so dearly.

Maybe if I would be less cruel to myself and nice to hard rocks, he will find me and I can walk again.
Maybe my heart that was made of soft cotton easy to be pulled by can be colorful like the blue sky,
and my face can mirror back the clouds' reflection —
and my hands can touch the end fur of the trees dancing when they see me in love wholly and less ruthless.

Maybe if I say maybe now, I can be held like I am a precious gem in his eyes and the birds won't be my enemies anymore,
they will sing wedding bells' songs and I'd smile in regards,
I will strum my harp and the only thing I can get by at the end of the day was his smile,
and that will build my little faith, and I will feel the love again, the once daydreamer, has now fulfilled her reality.

And I am back again in writing these, for myself while I continue to work and I sit here — in front of my desktop waiting for my reveries to come to life.

If then by the river where tears are hung low and stream albeit with its flow, then I must remind myself to fly with the blueness of my sacred scars.

I must peek around the bushes of this musky forest and hung low beneath the painted glass sky, where painted by shallow blue and bland pinkish canvas and clouds hanging grey and brisk.

I must learn to be still where birds flee when they gather around my presence and sing screeches of pain and hope.

I must lie down the billowy surge of these big waves that tries to weigh me down; for I must learn how to sing under the water and keep my nose dry and eyes swelling while I was beneath the painted glass sky.

For even when the trinket beads of my sweats holler at the sight of my numb hands and feet carried away by the quantum of the deep blue sea and the way it glorify the kiss of the clouds,

I must be like the rain so I can stay gloomy forever and the river may have its story to tell how its philanthropy saved me from a bucket of bloods from the war.

The ocean has a variety of conspiracies of being in its mystical state —
even creatures there knows how the world evolves in being in aggressive selfishness,
these people were still uncertain if it's five or seven oceans that we have,
everything is a metaphor —
all that we have can be fictional.
But, how do we determine if it's rather the reality and not just a conspiracy of thoughts put in science?

There are a variety of creatures and beings found scattered all over the earth, there were lullabies discovered in the means of this present time.
Everyone is entering a phase where reality turns fictional and the fictional happens more in reality.

But, despite all the conspiracies made by the geniuses, nothing can top the intelligence of the universe uniquely creating the earth filled with people —
different faces, different integrity, different minds
logical and artistic.

Among the other things, the ocean has a variety of conspiracies of being in its mystical state —
even the minds can't perceive how it is actually closer in the pit of hell — but, one single lullaby can turn conspiracy into the music of taste.

A single lullaby from Her can turn conspiracy into a song and the oceans deep can be discovered.

Time passes by like a whistle in the wind. Ignored and only observed within the thickness of one's skin. The once gnawing temptation in Lula's eyes were now exchanged in kaput like a dead black swan in the lake.

It grew on her and she can only justify it by moving her legs back in forth and forward with her ballet shoes; she can only obtain her physical through the applause of everyone around her. Yet, there were trickles of blood forming inside her internal wound — as the piano strikes another note in A minor, she can only whisk in pain and undone drafts in her head. "Tis will be over", she raises her head upon the crowds heaping in excitement, she turned around and flew her wings upright and the heads of the audience once more clapped in vain and delirium nonsensical pleasure.

As Chopin's symphony were almost in the last note, she stood straight and made her way to the middle. There, she locked eyes with her forbidden lover and a small smile throughout. The intensity of another Vivaldi's winter classic can be grasp once more and another set up of white swans gathered together — formed a circle and she went in the middle. Her eyes turned black and her wings bleed another tint of jet black and crimson. The crowds awed in reverence and she soared above them. A starlet in the headless crowds and dreary sweet rustle of voices gave her another bliss.

And while she was served aloft, there were another macabre symphony that plays through the soft rough piano; it was a solemn prayer and they were the kind souls going up to the heavens.

"Go on, Salem. Play the winter magic," Salem could only look at his muse and he strike another note, passing notes two steps from their 'haven'.

Lula slowly ripped her wings for the last time and smiled to all the headless men. Her satin dress reveals her plumpy chest and an hourglass body. Lula is a goddess black swan. Men could only forward their eyes and threw her pennies once more and she could only move in her balletic conventional pose. For the last time, she flew with her black tinted wings and they were all beheaded.

The white swans began to sing in a solemn outcry until it became too remorseful. The white swans turned their heads down when they met Lula's dead eyes. Her laugh echoing the whole stadium with its own persona and it is like crawling down into waltz where it reaches their earshot. They can only sing in albeit and expensive heads started to explode.

"Two steps from hell," she sings.

Then she met the sun rising above the sky
superior to its servants, for 'tis the bright light
giving shelter to trees and flowers —
her morning were as rough as the dried sunflowers.

She ne'er-do-well at nights that seem to haunt her every time the moon arises from below —
the moon whom she hates when it strikes at six o'clock and the sun sets at five o'clock, she never gets the time to smile.

Tomorrow with her is never home.
A night with her could be considered as the curse.
From o'er the horizon, she looks up above, and scream, “Even songs I love I could not hear!”
Her little hymn and tones turned into lulla-byes —
a lullaby to good-bye.

“Tis the time to go home,"  she said, but what if night ne'er sets down and tomorrows turned ashes and good-byes?

When will she go home?

There he stood outside the windowsill waiting for the wind
to whisper in her ears, his soft call of her name
heed the faceless man, and there he stood, outside the windowsill.

Her soul awakens and her hand in her chin
fresh from the bathe of her blood. There Avernus and
faceless, standing outside her chamber waiting for the woman to fall asleep.

The faceless man then wanting to reside by her side,
softly lulling her into death, prickling her thumb with a needle of life and death
through the parallel of his world and hers — there he stood waiting for his muse.

He grows slowly and deeply, his stomach churning; savoring
her blood in his mind, he waits until she falls asleep.

Her eyes wandered through the thin port outside her room —
the trees harshly peering through her window,
it is as if, they were telling dark tales in the midnight dawn of the night.
Avernus then sang in his native tongue; his muse terrified at the sight of him yet there was
comfort between the wind and the chilly night outside her window.

“It’s cold outside, why are you standing there?” She called out.