What exactly is the point of dreaming when you don’t have the means to make your desires come true? I don’t understand why I allow myself to aspire to great feats, when I know I will only be disappointed in the end. My dreams are my motivation; my dreams are my melancholia. My dreams are so implausible that they drag me down more and more with each passing day. And finally when I can no longer be pulled downwards, when I have hit the bottom, when I have landed full out on the frigid ice I am not going to try and pull myself up once more.