It was incomplete, but it was beautiful. That dream that was as true as I inhaled and exhaled.
Eyes wide awake, watching the reality around me; there’s a soft blur now, but the dream was sharp and real, when my eyes were closed and I, for a while though it may be, was in a different world. I was outside of me; seeing myself — it was a happy instance; which in this world it can never be.
Yet, it was my world, and its reality was pure; like the crisp sunshine of these southern winter mornings that I feel on my bare neck, under the netted shadows of old trees. It was not another world for sure. It was a time: either experienced and forgotten, or one that was soon due. But one thing was sure.
It was a happy one.
We all know it; for that sweet smile that wakes from a dream, cannot be suppressed; even when aware and awake. It is an empty sense of a foiled recollection; but we know deep down why we smile.
In our innocence, we call it a dream.