Dreams.

I always had this romantic idea in my head about living in the city and listening to people like Chantal Kreviazuk and writing. Tonight as I sit here, I am very full with the realization that I'm living a dream of mine. I have to work for it, yes. But it's a dream in progress.
The city is silent as the temperature rises to 30 degrees.
It's time again for evening walks.
Red and Green float on bars as cars stop and go
My heart beats softly
3 million people breathing
Some for the first time, others the last.
the floor is littered with books
Thousands of words remain unread
Unspoken.
Undone.
And for every moment that seems empty, there is one that is quite full
A first kiss.
A first slip in the snow
Laughter bounces off the buildings
We all act like we know what's going on
But everyone is figuring things out.
The pigment fades from our skin
The sickness pervades our lungs
We sneeze.
And yet, we are full
Because this is a dream.
Silhouettes cross the streets like ghosts.
The flashing hands tried to warn us
But we don't heed it; we just walk faster.
We walk confidently.
And you know why?
Because.
We're living a dream.