We are the dreamers, and we are everywhere. We are the feelers, the ones whose hearts are controlled by the tumultuous seas with­in us. We are the ones who twitch with the yearning for something to happen that will propel us from the normal and thrust us into the world that was always just a brush of a finger away. We are the ones who never ceased to believe in magic, in the glory in the twinkle of the night's first star, in the light that emanates from a man's face as his son runs toward him. We are the ones whose thirst for beauty leaves us parched. We are the ones who have made our homes in the clouds, our bodies barely tethered to reality.

We create the eternal.

We live in the in-betweens, on the edge, in the craters of the moon, on the branches of a willow tree, in the sun's reflection on ocean water. We live in our minds, where our shackles are unlatched and the remnants of the outside world are but a distant lull, ebbing and throbbing waves of a reality that was never quite so real to us. We, wanderers forever in search of the missing pieces of our souls, share the deep, unspoken bonds that only the lost can have. And because it is against our nature to clear our vision and see the world in its most unadulterated, raw form, we uncover ourselves to one another so we can be lonely dreamers together, confined to a state of perpetual search.

We thrive on an illusion, and we are led down a golden path to tragedy.

We find each other blindly, our arms outstretched in the deep abyss of the unknown, hoping for someone to share the journey with. We speak not in the clumsy language of grunts and syllables, but rather in the language of all that can be said through the depths of the eyes. We communicate with feelings, our hearts momentarily meshing and intertwining to understand one another in a way the others never will. In a way the others cannot. We know that our bodies keep our spirits within; this flesh is but a prison. Our souls yearn to escape, to make a permanent home in the land of the intangible, in the fantasy that has always been truer than what we can touch, hear, smell, feel.

Our truth has always been what is inside of us, not what lies beyond.

Our introductions, unpredictable events that lie at the will of flighty serendipity or carefully planned incidents within the patchwork of time, often go unnoticed until they have already happened. Until you find yourself shivering from being stripped naked and having all that is concealed devoured by a single look. Our meetings are both rare and necessary, for lone travelers need to know they are not alone. We need to know that we are not the only ones whose life is consigned to the fantasies in our mind, preventing us from engaging in what is beyond the hazy film of our eyes.

We stare at nothing in hopes of finding something. We are the dreamers, sprawled across time and space, both everywhere and nowhere at once. In our retreat into the shadowy depths of eternity, we are cowards. What is within us is infinitely better than what is outside of this fleshy cell, and so we stay buried in a false reality.

A dreamer sees himself in the eyes of dreamers passing by; an understanding connects their spirits but remains unsaid. It is only in the pools of melancholy and hope and naivety that overflow from a fellow dreamer that we recognize our own sadness, for we are dreamers, not doers.

And so we will thrive on these unspoken bonds, fleeting connections often forgotten in the blur. We will wait until all that we dream of becomes what is outside. We will wait for the reality where dreamers are doers. We will wait for the reality where we can emerge from our introspective slumbers to face a universe that does not need an escape.