𝗗𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗬 𝗟𝗔𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗥𝗬 ᵖʳᵒˢᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵖᵒᵉᵗʳʸ

i dream of,

I let my eyelids rest languidly over my pupils and irises; attempting to take flight again, to let the vortex of hallucination devour me with the force of a black hole, to introduce me to the manifestations of my subconscious contemplations as they transform into bodies, and buildings, walls, skies and stars, monsters, angels, words, sometimes even God.
Familiar faces, speaking the language of my mind as if they're in on the joke, thoughts assuming human form and places I have longed to be but in them I never were; traveling through my very own head, sights so beautiful, others cankerous dead ends all available within my grasp if I just remain in bed; for the continents occupying my brain are constantly developing into planets, solar systems, galaxies, endlessly constructing something so arcane, never being able to stop until I finally stop my train of thought-- worlds I will never catch up with or wholly explore, despite how much I dream of.