Dreams.

In a quiet dream, I hold myself, as if returning to the deepest place of the soul. There, time stops. Every clutter dissolves. Only stillness and calm remain. I hear my own heartbeat, gentle as comfort from a mother's arms. Worry and fear fade slowly, giving way to a sense of being whole and at rest.

In the dream, I go back to where the sunset holds your silhouette, where words of love kept secret for so long are a light wind, whispering close to the ear. I speak to you with a whole heart, burning with a longing that never faded. In the dream, I no longer hesitate. On waking, the question stays: in real life, would I have the same courage as in the dream?

In the dream, we hear a call rising like wind through a silent forest, soft yet haunting, touching the deepest part of the heart. A sound both distant and familiar. On waking, the words still linger, as if quietly asking: who called our name in that wild country of dreams?

In the dream, tears fall in silence, like a heart no one has yet understood. The calls carry no sound, only the echo of a loneliness that clouds the soul. We meet ourselves in sorrow, crying not from weakness, but because the heart longs for someone who understands.

In the dream, an apology falls softly, carrying feelings as light as wind touching the evening. Never said in the rush of the day, the unspoken words ask the dream to carry a little tenderness. The wind takes away the clumsiness, and the apology becomes a light cloud.

In the dream, we wander into a world without days or months, where every step holds uncertainty. Blurred crossroads appear, as if asking us to face ourselves. A lantern far away, at once lighting the path and testing our courage.

In the dream we turn, an endless circle, suspended in space, a gentle void. The body's axis turns like the blades of a fan, turning to feel life drifting on. Turning to forget, turning to remember, dreaming of things far and near.

In the dream, a hand grips a shard, a fading shape. Is it someone, or only an echo from far away, from a place the heart cannot yet see? Held tight, though afraid it will dissolve. An object, or the longing itself, searched for in the current of life and never let go.

In the dream, we wander into the void, where questions about the sky, the earth and the reason keep ringing out, answered only by the endless silence of time. A soft echo replies to the doubts, and then, between dream and waking, we can no longer tell which is which.

In the dream, we wander into a place both strange and familiar, where memory and present weave together in dim light. An old scent drifts past, calling up a place once visited, a place the heart keeps naming. Walking without knowing what we look for, we find only a settled calm.

In the dream, I stand still between the real and the void, where blurred lights print vague shapes. Faces pass like a cold breeze, carrying unfamiliar sounds, like whispers from a world that does not belong to me.

In the dream, an empty, cold platform appears like a faded picture, where I stand waiting for a train with no name and no hour. The heart is heavy with hopes half real, half not. But does that train truly exist?

In a restless dream, I cling to a thin thread, as if it joined the present to everything uncertain. Hands trembling, I fear losing something precious. Is it memory, a dream, or words of love not yet given? That thread, could it be myself?

In that dream, I touch a small hand, gentle yet full of strength, as if it held a whole sky of peace. Those eyes, bright with trust, light up feelings that seemed silent. A strange connection, shimmering and real.

In a dream of illusions, we wander among things not yet clear, as if searching for the key to the door of truth. But the key is fragile, breaking apart in the dark. Secrets are like wind blossoms; the key to a life is not easily found in an endless maze.

In the dream, I meet you again, a tender memory in the flow of time. You appear faint in the mist, the familiar eyes of the past full of human warmth. On waking, a chill in the heart, knowing you have gone far away, yet the light of memory still glimmers somewhere near.

In the dream, we are a leaf torn from the branch, falling free through endless space. No feet on the ground, no back against a wall, the drifting and lostness make the heart race. A hand reaches for something to hold, but only an empty sky holds us.

In the dream, I see myself let go, leaving a figure behind, letting old days drift past like a passing breeze. Hands once ardent now loosen in the vastness of earth and sky, no longer holding on, no longer reaching for what is far. Letting go is not to lose, but to walk on.

In the dream, I stand before a door, where sparse light touches the shoulder. A lock quietly keeps gentle secrets, like an invitation hidden behind it. My steps are slow and soft, in no hurry at all.

In a hazy dream, I sink into sorrowful water, where in the cold depths light is only a faded tint. Each stroke carries me through regions of feeling, where my heart opens on pains I thought had gone to sleep.

In the dream, we become a bird, gliding over still water, where waves ring out in calm, spellbinding tones. The sound whispers like a call from a place never left behind, stirring distant feelings.

In a blind dream, I run, but my legs seem held captive, unable to lift. A howling wind blocks the way, the bare ground beneath seems ready to swallow each step. A helplessness that wrings the heart.