Dear reader, I write to you:
To hear the epic tales of my wild dreams, you must first be aware of the fact that I’m not that much of a slumberer. Neither am I a stranger to the drowsy effect of dark clouds and twinkling stars.
But I don’t sleep long enough to let the night consume in its inky body where blurry dreams live. But when I do, I wake up from the same dream, falling backwards into a hole of formidable chimera.
A hectic monotonous routine that a man of my stature mustn’t endorse.
See, I’m a true dreamer, the type that isn’t confined to the illusion of pitch-black nights. So what’s a little bit of sleep compared to the dreams I have when I’m awake? The ones that are crafted in the astutely brilliant walls of my mind. Oh, to be a creator of real-life dreams!
Slumbering minds see mischievous foolishness, daydreamers see Iridescent realities. What you see is a reflection of who you are. Oh, to live life as a dream!
