“Open your eyes, for this world is only a dream.”
Men cannot let go of the branches they hold, and truly, they are unaware. A thousand grips to a thousand musts, wrapped around this idea of themselves. Each psychological grip manifests as a physical tension, and so the energy of this once vital vessel is enervated — depleted and deprived — by a thousand tensions that sap its life force away. He imagines life to be a walk upon a beam, with winds almighty drawing him astray. His eyes and ears believe it wholly, even if it is, and has always been, merely fiction. He mixes the real with the unreal without fail, and this soup boils everyday as a new tale. His song is sweet in one hour and sour a moment later. It is altogether a silly affair, and someone must stir him awake.