Once, I lived for the seeking of that which is beautiful; even the smallest points of light in the darkest forgotten corners would call to me, their tremulous flickering warming my soul as it passed through the cold dismal winters of this life. I glance behind at my footprints in the black sand and see the gentle glow of a trail of perfect moments stretching out into the distance, interspersed with nothing. Is this, then, my life - after being distilled and purified and reduced to something that I can hold in the palm of my hand?
In my seeking I dream of that which is not real; horizons which cannot exist except in thought lay one on top the other, and for a moment in flight I stare into that infinity and am free to ride the winds that do not carry any hate, or pain, or fear. Niether do they carry love or joy, but just for this moment, it does not matter.
For on this farthest shore of thought that rises out of dream-stuff, the beautiful and the horrific are as one, and the incredible and the mundane collapse inward together; shed with the last of my tears is any need to feel, and here I can simply be...
But that can't last forever.
Everything eventually falls apart; one after another the glass dragons of my dreams succumb and fall to the ground, shattering into a jagged pile of reality until nothing is left, nothing at all, not even the need to care. And what is a dream, anyway? A crystal phantom, a voice crying out that will never be heard again...
It's a defense mechanism; remove the things that can be broken and you cannot be touched. Or don't bother rebuilding them the next time they break. It leaves a big gaping empty space but at this point I'm willing to sacrifice most of my capacity for pleasure if it takes most of my capacity for pain along with it. | 
