a garden of dreams

why yes, we do get tired sometimes. And yes, even the dimmest ignoramus will sense things that do not shine with light. Sometimes wretched wights would fain blame it upon excuses just to hide their own misgivings. We will give it rest and let time be the bulwark against which it will dash asunder; leaving us to pick up mere fragments of memory to compensate for the fabricated dream.

We want! but what have we? We may only exist in dreams, mine alone, yours apart. It should be only right that we feel such fading; we would not do it justice to say that it never was, yet be unfair if we said it would prevail. Such is the nature of what was once held so dear. A moment of brilliance in a dark world leaves afterimages that will carry through our thoughts in our minds.

This is the garden of my dreams. For untold generations we have protected it from the vitators. Once more has another rose been planted in place of another, once again has the land been tilled and ploughed over. Now this garden will once again wilt with the oncoming footsteps of old man winter, and soon all shall be swept over with a sheen of white. But never would it be totally lost; like marks etched into rock so shall it be set in stone forever.

Oh, what ails thee, knight at arms,
so lonely and palely loitering?
the sedge has withered from the lake,
and no birds sing.

We trudge across this wasteland, wander through its dunes. We moan and complain, we thirst and hunger.
but we cannot leave, because we want not.
we wander alone.