Life, like dreams, rarely make sense.
Yet we struggle to make sense of it.
To sleep, perchance to dream; Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet.
He was referring to death, and craving the same.
What is it that each of us desires? Is life nothing more than a prison, with sleep but a recess?
Is it possible that life, to some, is merely an escape from the reality of our dreams, our nightmares?
And how do we interpret our dreams?
For that matter, how do we interpret our life?
Or, should we?