The rose of my dreaming blooms in harshest night, when all stars have blinked out of view. The rose of my dreaming is red with the blood of those who have fallen chasing after impossible hopes. I cannot imagine that the rose of my dreaming is any sweeter than that of any child, though to them it is a new fragrance, and to me it is the familiar waft of old fantasies.... What is there to do? This rose haunts me as I walk on through this living, lets me not be when I desire some moments of unburdened silence. The rose of my dreaming I wish sometimes would flower in some other man's heart, though I am afraid should it ever leave me. This rose blesses me with a curse, curses me with a blessing — but sweet agony, let me never forget how your scent led me out of darkness.
me?!
12:42am friday, 2nd january
One of my favourites.
Sometimes,sometimes I can actually imagine,sometimes your words becomes a picture rolling before my eyes,such as now..
dh
4:44am sunday, 11th january
Our visions, dreams, hallucinations, are expressions of ourselves, as much as the way we behave when we are frightened, happy, or sad. Our visions tell us ourselves. We should listen to them and what they tell us as much as we should listen to our reactions to a comment some one makes in a conversation.
me?!
dh