A dream is a dream, something sweet, no matter how sour. I dream about dreaming, I live to dream. Sleep is an escape from that eternal reality, always calling me back, always beckoning and demanding my attention. Reality demands for me to think, to act, to make decisions and live even when I want to die. Maybe that’s why I can dream about dying. I dream because it’s the only time where I’m truly happy. I fall asleep with a smile, because I know what dreams do to me. They awake my subconscious, my inner self, calling out like a wild animal, waiting to be let out. This life is a cage. I am inhibited by my body, by my own mind, and by gravity. But in dreams, I fly, I transform. Yes, dreams often are a reflection on reality. Sometimes dreams are too real to be true. Sometimes I must go through the same exact formalities of the real world in the dream word, of saying hello, of being embarrassed, of being normal. But sometimes…no, all the time, my dreams are too good to be true. They are indescribable, a mess of images jumbled together into one beautiful story unattainable by my natural mind. These dreams stimulate in me a happiness and freedom unattainable by any activity of body or mind. Sometimes real is too real. But a dream can never be too fantastic.