We Are What They Are

We’re the self-delusional dreamers.
We’re the ones who stay awake at night simply because we can, falling into a sleeping state just to get by the day we must reluctantly greet. We lie on matresses we stripped bare, eyes glazed and misted over after yet another evening of trying to soar so high that we scrape the inky skies above us, the pinpricks in the fabric that should be the stars are blotted out unceremoniously, we try so desperately to breach the almost invisible confines of the streets that never treated us as badly as we make ourselves believe. We stay in silence, the only sounds permeating our personal atmosphere being the wails of sirens passing us by and fading away, only to be replaced by a sigh that escapes our lips at the realisation that we have few ways to crack through the shell of mediocrity that has formed around us.
There are those who are also self-delusional dreamers.
They’re the ones who stay awake at night in order to prevent waking up screaming, terrified of their own insides. They face each day with the determination of those who have no other choice, blinkered so the only light they see is that of vague hope, moving away from them at a rapidly increasing pace. They’re the ones desperately scrabbling for an escape from the place that beats them down until their frantic hands are left tattered and tired. They’re the ones with a grip on reality, the ones who have no need or wish to convince themselves that their lives are any different from how they seem. They’re the ones whose soundtrack features sirens that don’t fade away into the dimly lit nights beyond them.
We have differences, us and them. We have our similarities too; the only thing left we can all be sure of is that dreaming, for us, doesn’t quite fill the reality induced hole.
We are all trapped.