Mourning that, that never was.

Mourning a dream, a hope that keeps us going.

Living an illusion and then realising it is but a dream. All that fog and muck and rain which we do not want to see, all around us, in us, in our smiles and hand gestures.

We see what we wanted to see, what we believe to be right.

What we hope is right for us. So, we let it happen around us, with us. We thrive on that dreamland and call it reality.

And we happily live every after, in our nonreality, in our dream and we are happy and smile and laugh. We do all those things in the mist of our dream.

We do not live. We do not do what we are meant to do. We potter along in our nightmarish fog and call it reality. That here and now.

We live in our limited reality.

Made up reality because we need something to keep us going, something more than oxygen to keep us alive and smiling and hoping for a sunny tomorrow.

We need people to talk to, places to go to, dinners to cook. We need to be needed, wanted. The dream of being the centre of the universe, to be the centre of somebody’s universe.

The illusion of the self illustrates our incomprehension of what we see. What we are meant to see and what there is! It’s all colourful and beautiful but it is not real.

What we see and what we perceive. Is that real?

To be, we dream. To prove to ourselves that we exist, we dream and when we stop dreaming and start creating realities into our fog and mist. We are nothing,

We just are.