Memories from a world I’ve never been to- empty

There is a place in our hearts that stays empty no matter what we do to fill it up. Our attempts at wholeness leave us a complete shadow of what we hope to be true, against our better natures. For to the hopeful, there cannot be anything other than that which is hoped for, and the subject is realer than the hopeful’s existence. This is the substance of the empty heart, how that we can choose to forget all that we’ve come to hold so dear, or we could have forgetfulness imposed on us as a way of keeping us safe. Nevertheless our hope still remains, living beauty, and this is the magical nature of the matter.

Sublime nature, eternal youth, such is the story of the matter, from the beginning of existence the birth of time. Howbeit, the matter is to be grossly misunderstood, the reality exchanged for a stark caricature of the issue- hopeful lies, lies hopeful that all those blinded in hope should live to the death of that which they hope for; vain incidences, having their realities darkened in the light of the faith they hold to ever so dearly. And they would not let go, for strong is the bond that ties them so, knots that live to the eternal remembrance of promises made, oaths takes, moments shared. And something might just come between- time, distance, another oath, a forgotten promise, a condition that must be met to preserve the life of another. Let go to save one is the queen word, and there’s no defiance for defiance would surely mean death, and there are many ways one could die- death to existence or death to memory.

I should choose the former, and the latter is worse for the mind than it could bear; the mind houses a thousand secrets and a thousand sounds all playing melodiously to the eternal beauty of the forgotten one. And one is never truly forgotten, for somewhere in the deep recesses of the mind the fellow lives, deep dark basement, waiting to be released by the very one that is loved. And for love he may never be released, that the one he loves might be released too; fatal flaws. An oath taken must not be broken; to break is deserving of death yet what is death? The end of existence or the end of a memory? For what I do not remember is dead to me, if I remember I remember a dream. So what say you then? Shall we then live our lives in a dream? Dreams have more potent powers at constructing realities we wish were real. Memories from worlds we’ve never been to. And it’s so amazing when I think of it, stars and rainbows and waterfalls to fairies and fantasies I’d never allow myself drift into. But that’s the beauty, or what do you think? This is the story we’ve always wished to create; now we have the chance to create it, all in our dreams.

But what is a dream when it’s forgotten? Or what is a reality when it’s locked in your sleep? Nulled existence I tell you, for to the end of that I wish we would be eternally locked in sleep, living our lives to the fullest in the reality of our dreams. But what do we have now? The illusion of the grown up. Step out of your dreams they say, making sleep like a forbidden wasteland, all in our best interests. Tell that to Alice. Now we live in half worlds, half of our lives locked in dreams we’ve forgotten, lives dead to us. Or we’re dead to them, whichever is realer to the system. And what is the system? The system is what holds our existences together, and the system is really small, and really huge. Small enough to make the connections seem so close to us we could actually touch it, and huge so as to simply take us all. So ask the system, you just might get an answer you’ve searched for all your life.

More than half the time we live in memories we never had. The memory comes before the incident. We create ideas for ourselves, our pathetic grasps at some strands of power that are completely nonexistent. Ideas are what shape the world people say, but I tell you this: our worlds are shaped by our fantasies. For what I desire to be real I create, and if I can’t create it, I’ll dream about it. So it’s either real in this world or in the other; either way it’s real. I’ve tried to avoid the next question that knock ever so silently to deafen my entire system: am I as real as I’d like to think? Am I really alive? If death is the end of a memory, do I not partake in deaths more times than I could count? If I forget something, do I not by the act kill it? Or if I’m forgotten by someone, am I not by the same act killed by the person? So what do we believe? Our lives as we know it are entanglements of systems; we forget and kill, we make and give life. Or at least when we remember there is a semblance of life to it, as one that has been saved from drowning. And do we not drown ourselves daily? Many questions I assure you, many questions than there could be answers, and yet there could be no straight answers. For we are but dreams stored up in our own imaginations, we’re real when we create the side of us that wishes to be real, all subject to the will of the system. And the system ever so wills, unbending to the will of the dreamer. But we think we direct our dreams, fatal flaws, bringing us back to the beginning- memories from a world we’ve never been to, and the story revolves around its point- we, and the unbending will of the system...

So what say we then? Summon the system? The system cannot be summoned, for to be summoned denotes an acknowledgement of a force greater in person or office than the subject. Rather summon the dreamer, and the keeper of dreams, for we are kept in the dreams we make, and our realities are from the dreams we make real. Summon the dreamer, and summon the keeper. We are our own keepers, the system gives us the dreams and we keep them, waiting  for the order of birth and life to flow through them, and pray we do not forget them, that they may live in the life we wish them they live. We live in our empty hearts, truly.