Of course I dream of running. Everyone in the ranks of the restless and the lonely does. We dream of conquering, and escaping, and of the subsequent elation that will take hold of us. We write out elaborate fantasies in our imaginations, then wipe the board clean and write some more, just so we can test out the limits we have set for ourselves. And of course, to find out if it's possible to break them. Up there is the sky, and we find ourselves owning a blue vastness with our eyes closed and our hearts open. We embrace the possibilities we make, and we will them to become true. Only to have the satisfaction of knowing, even for once, what it feels like. We live in so many hopes, dream so much- it all piles up, quite precariously in our souls. It's always at the point of almost toppling over, but even then we can't let go of the empires we've achieved, if only within ourselves.
It's not like we don't know this is a series of exercises in futility. We know more, and better, than those who never dream. That's the epicenter of our crisis: we know a little too much, and a little too well that our castles are made of sand. At the end, when we're up against the world, they will wash away and wash up in the consciousness of others who dreamed like we did. And even then, even when the these lives have collapsed, when we become bogged down in our own webs- even then we we will not have the heart to warn them. And we will never laugh, because looking back at our naivety will be endearing in the most heartbreaking of ways.