Echoes of dreams dissipate upon waking. Like the silk scarf slipping through fingers, you frantically grasp at its delicate texture but still it disintegrates upon the return to reality. Until all you're left with are fragments of a memory and an ache that casts its shadow through the day.
What is idiotic is that even in the dreams there is an acknowledgment of a barrier. A boundary that has to be respected. How unfulfilling.
"And the truth that you find, will always be the truth that you hide"
Maybe inside everyone there still remains traces of the awkward, unsure person you once were.
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