"it does not do to dwell in dreams and forget to live" - Dumbledore

Sometimes I have to tear myself out of bed in the morning. Tear myself away from dreams whose nonsensical events, so pregnant and robust, serve as comfort to my thin sliver of a life. Sometimes I can almost feel the pain of it, wrenching myself out of images and actions that aren’t, because things that are not cannot hurt me. To raise myself out of those hazy dreamscapes seems almost akin to an icy plunge. A million jagged edges. Oh, to live in the not and never be wounded.

Then to awake and realize that life is so much lighter than dreams, so much simpler. But for some reason this is no comfort. For some reason, this is a weight. Attached to this weight is the dreaded pain, the ache in the chest that has become a constant side affect of consciousness. The ache and the weight. Reminders and products of everything that is lacking. All the failures and flaws that are so agonizingly apparent. Everyone must see them. Everyone must know. But in dreams you are perfect, in dreams these holes in you do not exist. The jagged edges are softened. Oh, to lower myself into this unconscious sanctuary where all things are beautiful and comfortable. I crave it like a drug.

But, like a high, it is not real.
And, after all, nothing truly exists but reality.
And in the end, it does not do to dwell in dreams and forget to live.