There are days when he awakens where everything around him is a blank grey-white, where it seems he is lost in some vast infinite space full of nothing but emptiness. On those days he has to fight to get moving, for it always seems, before he starts, that there is nothing to move toward: that the very act of moving will be pointless, since there is no visible goal.
Some days, he loses the fight. He simply exists within the great blankness, passing his time until sleep claims him once more. On those days he feels more lost than any other. On those days, he knows he has wasted himself.
Other days, he wins the fight — but only in part. He wanders some, explores the grey expanse, and, perhaps, finds something he would have missed by remaining idle. Sometimes, despite the fact that he has forced himself into effort, he finds nothing, but he contents himself that at least he tried, if not as hard as he believed he should.
On rare days, upon awakening to nothing, he finds the true drive within himself. He squints into the distance, and he sees something there, and he moves toward it with determination and mindfulness, and he discovers it, and he takes it within himself and it becomes a part of him, an expression of his life and a monument that indicates, to him, that what he has done is not a waste, but an accomplishment.
Yet whatever he may accomplish or fail to do on the days where he wakes up in a bleak, empty realm, he wishes, as he goes to sleep at night, that he will find himself somewhere full and living the next time he opens his eyes.
Daydreams 