Life Is but a Dream

"I want to be accepted but different from the rest," was what he would say. I'd nod along or laugh it off.

"Everyone is different in some way," I'd reply and he'd let a concentrated look cross his features before he, too, nodded.
And then the conversation would die for a while.

Until he started talking about school or home or going out.

I never really thought about what he was saying, it was like a routine for him to say it. He did at least twice a day. I didn't feel safe if he didn't so I guess it was a good thing for him to repeat it.
Well, for one of us at least.

"Do you ever wonder where the stars come from?" he asked one day.

"That's easy, they're particles of gas."

"No, not in the logical sense. You're always so damn logical. Why?" he questioned, looking down at me.

"It's who I am."

"Do you like being logical?"

"It's got both ups and downs, I suppose."

"...Do you have an imagination?" he asked quietly.

"How else you think I write?" I shot back.

And once again, the thought would become more evident on his face than in his mind. The conversation died, too. We sat on his back porch, both legs crossed and looking out at the horizon. We watched the sunset and the moon slowly appeared, hidden by pollution and wisps of Grey cloud.
Still no word was said.

"Will life always be this same routine?"

"God, I hope not. We'd be drones, dull, lifeless, never changing. Never going anywhere," he laughed. I smiled. Simple but different. He stood up and pulled me up into the same standing position next to him before I walked inside. He stayed where he was before slowly walking off to the other side of the street, down the hill, disappearing out of view.

"What is life but a dream?" I whispered to myself.