Life amid dying dreams

The other day I woke up with a broken dream. I scurried into the loo for a splash on my face to hit back on the earth that’s dear yet dreaded. I gazed for long into the reflection of my face on the mirror. Long enough for the dripping water drops to vanish.
I was perhaps trying to repair the broken threads of the dream to make it complete.
But I failed. Perhaps, dreams are destined to die, most often premature.
We tread the path of life probably because we are tasked to do so. We meet people and we get distanced — probably because it is previously decided. We enjoy someone’s company and we part — blame it on the destiny again.
Then what can we do at all ourselves?
We can make bombs. We can wipe out large swathes of life with the press of a single button.
But we can’t restore it because we are not programmed to do so.
By now, pressed under incoherent thoughts, the broken threads of my dream have started fragmenting. They won’t take long to vanish, I know.
Dreams born and die like this. Days follow the same track. We keep moving, nevertheless. A relentless process of breathing continues unabated till the final call.
We call it survival. The survivor is the fittest, thus spake the scientist.
But are we, all those claiming to be the survivors, alive? Are surviving and being in life the same?
I beg to defy.
We are all dead, lost in an abyss of darkness. We feign to be alive and we die every time our dreams suffer a death blow. We die with our dreams but we, the Homo sapiens, can shrug off the death knell to our dreams and wake up to weave new dreams.
Why? Perhaps, we still look for life in dreams.