|"Working Title:" Dichotomy|
|Hear My Call!|
That 'something' you've always wanted, it's shape, texture, height and depth slowly fading from vision. Is it your sight that's fading or the object losing its material form? What is reality?
Live years, with an ideal world, only to find the one you wake to each day far from your utopia. And yet you can no more shift from 'this world' to 'that.' Arms' reach? No. As far as the East is from the West. From here to the North Star and I don't mean the distance from the southern states to the northern. Like the word "freedom," conceptual and personal, your desire(s) can be as immaterial and far from completion.
Alive, but not really; going about each day as if in a dream from which there is no escape. No more control over the state of your affairs than the nerve spasms that contort muscles and leave bruising.
Is there any hope? What is hope?