Hay ojos que de lagañas se enamoran.
The proverb says that some eyes fall in love with sleep, with that thing that can be found in the corners of our eyes when it’s time to wake up and say goodbye to our dreams. Sleep isn’t clay, but it comes pretty close. There are myths that proclaim that we were made out of clay. And it would be nice to believe that creation is an act of love. That our creator still has clay stains on his hands and hasn’t forgotten us, like a dream after waking up.
One morning the girl woke up with her eyes clogged with sleep. Her eyes refused to open, stubbornly clinging to her dream. But someone dipped a cotton ball in chamomile tea and used it to clean her eyes. And with a bag full of books on her back, the girl went to school. She daydreamed about creation. She wondered if there was still clay on her creator’s hands, or if someone used chamomile to erase every last remnant of love from them too. With the books still inside the bag, the girl had only one regret. It wasn’t the dream she had already started to forget. The thing she regretted was not having created anything out of that sleep, so reminiscent of clay, when she still had the chance.
In my dreams I do many things, I become a thousand different people. But once I wake up there are no marks left, there is nothing to wash away with chamomile. I am still myself. Thank you for loving me.
My eyes were opened with chamomile, I wasn’t allowed to stay in my dream world. And if I wasn’t, no one will. Chamomile for everyone.
Dreams cannot be eaten. I was scolded for making them waste chamomile, that they could have drunk, to release me from the dream where I hid from the world.
If I get rid of all the chamomile before going to sleep, will I be able to remain inside my dream?
If your dream survives your waking up, if it manages to cross to the other side of your eyes, shouldn’t you treat it as a miracle? Shouldn’t you water it to let it grow and become a part of your reality? But no. You wash it away with chamomile instead.
Flowers are something beautiful that isn’t a part of your everyday life. I don’t see why you would use chamomile to wash away dreams. I would show compassion. I wouldn’t end a beautiful dream with something beautiful, I wouldn’t end an unreal dream with something unreal. I believe in honesty. I would use coffee, to let my dream know that it has no place in my everyday life.
I’m awake. I’m awake. I’m awake. It’s been more than 6 months since my last dream. The chamomile worked too well. I’m awake. This reality is the only thing I see.
There is no more chamomile. What will I do now? I’m afraid. They told me that dreaming is not good, that it is useless. What will I do if I fall asleep, if I dream and cannot wake up?
The problem is that my dreams are small. I should have greater aspirations. I have to dream bigger. Dreaming is like swimming. I have to imagine a bigger ocean. I have to hoard all the water of the world, so that they don’t have anywhere to dip their chamomile bags. If I dream an ocean, they won’t be able to wake me up.
This is what I remember. I remember all the words that they used to discourage me from dreaming, to destroy my dreams. But I don’t remember what I once dreamed.
What keeps you alive? Eating. Where are your dreams born? In your stomach. And that is where you will destroy them. Swallow.
I have heard that other children share their dreams. I will share something better with you. Let’s destroy someone else’s dreams.
What I don’t see cannot hurt me. I created a beautiful reality, and I cannot watch how those ungrateful dreamers mistreat it like that.
Do you see clay in my hands? No? Then don’t ask me anything else.
I didn’t wash the clay from my hands. I would have liked to remember my creation forever. But I live in the universe. Surrounded by darkness, by clay that demands more clay. Holding on to creation is impossible, even for me.
You want unconditional love? I don’t mind, I can give it to you. Are you sure that you exist?