She came to dream of sweeter things inside this hall of bitter scenes. Where once a wall stood blank and stark there now was painted her whitewashed heart.
No red to suggest loss of breath, nor browning scabs to hint at death. And surely not a trace of black to give some sign of her pains past. For her there only was this hall, a whitewashed dream free of the fallen:times and people, places vast, where words were thrown and glances cast. Such sad romances dashed as glass itself might shatter or might crack. Or even fracture and never whole again, be cast out, useless, forgotten then.
What scars arose in times she chose to trust in those who claimed to know her fell like leaves from her sweet mind and smooth dreams took their place in time. No moment given to the grief, no second thought to find relief, just slim denial, denial strong. She’s done this cleansing her whole life long. And where do all these bad things go? Certainly not in her hallway home. No, you see, the walls are white. The wrong is lost from thought and sight. So where now, where, for there must be a place in time for everything? And time now passed is never lost, just organized in thought out slots inside the memory of life. She keeps her memory hallway white. She dreams the endings she’d have chosen and denies the tragedies and frozen hearts she never could quite thaw. But what the hell did she do with it all?
One little slip, the slightest trip and before she can rise it assaults her poor eyes. The coldest corridor bathed so thick with trauma in stains on red/black brick. The shards around are not of glass but of the hopes which never last. Her hopes and dreams, in ruin, dashed. Dear Dreaming Girl-HERE IS YOUR PAST!!! Look wide-eyed with that doe-eyed glance at every dream which had no chance. The truth is written on these walls and not at all like your white-washed halls. Rather quite the opposite display. The hall of things you cast away. The locked up host of your each pain has come as one to molest you again. The floodgate opened in your brain will spill on over to the sweet dream place. Oh my God, those red brick stains? They remind me of your crying face. And those broken, scattered dreams? They are the whole of real things. I really wish you could have shaped a better wall to seal this place. But, like the dream world you devised, the wall was as weak as its weakest lie. And that, my precious dear, would be your precious trust in precious things. Nothing is ever healed with time, just corraled up deep in the mind. When that corral fills to breaking and vengeance of the past comes overtaking all the dreams you’ve been creating you’ll feel your sweet life is worth taking. So raise your pretty hand and cry, prepare the razor, prepare to die. I hope that I can come in time to wipe your blood and close your eyes. Then in the morning when they find your rose-petal body and finally stilled mind, only peace will your face reveal. And those sweet dreams will appear real.
However, please, before that day, please listen now to what I must say. I speak because myself I’ve known the pain it brings when dreams are gone. Natural sure to want to run away from life and see it done. It’s true that your pain just might end but mine would live again my friend. And my dream, You, would then be gone and my own wall would fall in on the secret place where I would dream. If I lose you I lose everything. But if you’ll take a chance to grieve the sad things you looked up to see, then give me a sooner chance to arrive, I swear I’ll help put the dreams back in your eyes. I need you, Love, vital and alive. Sure, some day everyone must die. But past pain is neither justification nor cause to shut those pretty eyes of yours. It hurts your dreams gave way to pain? Then take my hand, let’s dream again.