I dreamt I was a writer, a minstrel, and loving man. One who all could see without illusion I was good, but until this evening I cannot deny, courage is but a fraction of its usual stance. Courage, and passion are regressing into ape hood. I look through the centre of my being to find an aching entity.
Where are the symptoms of purpose which brought me to stay alive? Where are the signs of miniscule progression I created this plan to become the man I dreamt to be?
My values are fading, and my purpose changing. I feel less. Especially with the goals I’ve beset. I need a taste of sugar, maybe a touch of pleasure, maybe a sight of unmistakable beauty. ‘I’ in this context is the self who dreamt, but I lie here before the sleep I must partake and question if I am to dream much longer.