Time passes and I weary myself

There is in the dream this light which rises beyond the hill in a white color. There are the violins which attack the acute ones whereas your steps lead you towards the feature of light. You have the feeling to advance, to approach, go up towards the trees. You forces on your steps. The slope is hard, painful, testing. Since always, you want to reach the top to know what there is behind. This light attracts you. You speak to me about it, the morning with the alarm clock. Each day. You repeat me your waiting. Time passes and I weary myself. I will like to carry you in top that you can, that you stop doubting, question me, that we leave this vicious circle. I do not see the hill, the light about which you speak to me. You so often told them to me that to imagine them is not useful any more for me. Will I be able to recognize them, so only you knew where to locate them to me? But you do not have any reference mark, if in fact the dream carries you each night. To explain, understand it, I of it am not able. Is It needed besides? Not, you live, coiled in him inside. He lives you, haunts you. You learned how to like it. He separated us. Each night, you tackle the first steps on the hill. You go up. You stop. I understood it. You do not wish to reach the top. You do not want to really know. I know your complexity. That was part of your charm. Front. But, today, time passes and I weary myself. Your madness is not any more one charm but a weight in charge of trouble. I refused to take the hand to you to assemble with you the hill. I can that I would have gone in top, until the end, to know, tell you. But that would have killed you. Then, the come night, I flee. We are nothing any more but comets which cross in the black sky of a life without future. There is no more in us of light for still hoping to conquer tops together. Time passed and I wearied myself.