In dreams, we chase the horizon.
Sometimes, they're just corridors of yesterday's errands, echoed by a gentle breeze. Yesterday's quarrels dissolved in muted hues, refracting through prisms of introspection and daily narratives. These crossings—between realization and fantasy—leave traces more vivid than the aches of reality.
I remember when the old man by the waterfront spoke of the horizon, how it sang the stories of those brave enough to fracture the dusk. His tales always seemed to flicker in the twilight, touching the edges of beliefs often locked away. They were stories with lands far greater than the ones we tread, revealing selves we never dared embrace.
The door creaks gently, letting in whispers rather than echoes, scene-setters of absurd and tender moments. Beyond the horizon of waking lies fragments—laughs like rain falling into puddles, thoughts cascading into streams that reflect clouds and moonlight alike.
Realism bleeds into dream, just as dreams return to the realm of sunlight with stardust in their wake. And, in this dance, every moment becomes a horizon painted, just waiting for the brush of a dreamer.