There is a certain severity and embedded inexorability about dreams, the ones which are for all intents and purposes, by definition placid imaginings, but leave you gutted shoddier than ancient spells and the hyperbole that come wrapped about it. When you wake up and return to the globe wherefrom the dream had tempted to become your saviour and your refuge from nocturnal disappointments, you have already, by then, become an outcast for the transient moments that immediately follow your return. Where reality rejects you, you reject reality, you turn your face to dream and the dream stands long wrecked. Such absolute is the wreck that not a trace of it can be noticed, only felt, and sensed deep, intrinsically like a rudiment of human birth, true and sure. Like a glass breaking in vacuum, the shattering complete and irrevocable, yet the effect diluted by separation from air.
The struggle between conscious and the imagination starts to break into the nerves tightening the pieces that reflect in your eye. Pieces from a lost trance. What is not possible turns impossible and what cannot become is unachievable. There remains no more a prospect of turning the shreds of broken dream into a thread of hope. Because of the challenge of the truth, the fierceness of the battle between the hopes and their veracity, the unfeasibility of the dreams right to become and the defeat of the very existence of its purport.
Because after one dreams, the retribution of reality begins. It unleashes its wrath more outstandingly with vintage vengeance. The punishment of dreams begins after their end. They get back at the dreamer.