Dreams, those ephemeral visions, are the mind's reflections in a murky pond. Within the labyrinth where we wander at night, there is an unsettling truth: they aren't merely fancies or escapades of an overactive imagination—but cautionary tales, mirrors to our waking selves.
Ever considered how deeply interconnected dreams are with our identity? They unravel like old tapestries. What's locked in the mind isn't always intended to be there, but sometimes—just sometimes—it feels as if dreams have other plans for us.
The ugliest truth could be acknowledging that our dreams understand us perhaps better than we do ourselves, painting futures that could-be or once have been. Do they show us the paths not taken? Corridors hidden in the daylight's grasp. Sometimes they scream, sometimes they comfort; always they unravel.