Dreams.

They’re difficult to come by these days, but they’re the thing he desires most right now. A dream, however convoluted, however meaningless, however… frightening. It doesn’t really matter. Because for a dream junkie, the unreal is the most real reprieve. 

When he first realized that he’s addicted to dreams, it was funny, ridiculous. “How can you be addicted to dreams?” She asked. He couldn’t really explain. But he knew it was true. Every night when he had a dream, he felt alive. As if he had something to do through the next day other than his boring and too-easy of a job. And what he did the next day each minute he wasn’t doing something else was think about the dream he had. 

Sometimes, he would feel excited, because the dream had something new, something he had never experienced before. Like riding on a wave of leaves or flying above the sea floor among clouds made of dust. Sometimes, he would be lost, trying to make sense of the dream, because there were just too many recognizable things in the dream. But it was all worth it, because there was an adventure, something of a beauty in all the meaningless layers of the dreams. People called him an overthinker. People called him aloof, selfish, lost… depressed. He didn’t really mind, and most of the time, he ignored them. 

They simply didn’t understand. They didn’t understand that for someone like him, the thoughts of the waking hours were too scary, too debilitating. It was a solace, a peace to let something from within him create the food for thought that he could work with. Something that made blood flow faster in his veins, even for that brief subconscious moment before waking up.