We Are Your Dreams

We are your dreams.
Your scientists ask whether we’re real, and seek to test our truth with experiments and apparatus.  But they find nothing, so they call us dreams; hallucinations; delusions and wild imaginings.  And having so labelled us, they pat you on the head and assure you that we’re not real.
We are your dreams.
We are your hallucinations.
We are the vision of your fever; your drug trip; your drunkenness.  We’re here, in the back of your mind; the corner of your eye.  We are the faces in the smoke; the glimpsed figures in the shadows.  We’re the whispered voices amongst the rustling leaves, and the ripples in the stream.  We watch from high places; dark places; deep places.  We watch from dusk-dark windows; from the dust-flecked mirror.
We see you – and sometimes you see us, and then you dismiss us.  You explain us away.  You run to the warmth and safety of the scientists’ explanations; and perhaps turn to doctors, who will give you drugs to suppress your perception of us.
But we’re still here.  We’ll always be here.  As long as you dream.
We are your dreams.  How real do we need to be?
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