I find myself chasing after my dreams.
I meant literally my dreams—the subconscious workings of my mind (Soul? Spirit?) that I experience when I’m asleep, possibly induced by memories, random thoughts or whatnot.
What are dreams made of? How real can they get?
I get normal dreams where the mundane meets the extraordinary. But then I get weird dreams about unidentified objects, or formations I don’t even recognize. How crazy can I be, huh? There are also dreams where I get to see a whole movie, or read a whole book, be impressed by it, only to find out that there’s no way I can get a copy of it when I wake up. Outrageous, right? Then, there are also dreams of mine that actually come true, or aspects of it that do.
There are dreams that I wish were true. A frustration, a place of interest, a solution to an unsolved problem, an anticipated event that didn’t happen, people I wish I had met.
The thing I like most about my dreams, is that they’re very real to me. I love it when I try to squeeze my head just to get every detail out when I wake up. Dreams are very real, very surreal, and very intangible, all at the same time. It’s only as good as it gets. Some dreams, no matter how I try, won’t come true. It’s quite sad when that happens sometimes, but there are times when I get relieved that they didn’t.
A dream is like a beautiful, fleeting thing that gets caught in a cage of an illusion. Every time I dream, I trap myself in a very constraining, going-nowhere, hard-to-leave realm. It’s painful and magical at the same time.
I get so affected by my dreams. In fact, thinking of them helps me cope with the unfairness of life. Life is indeed unfair. No two things are created equally; each one is unique and comparable (or dually, incomparable) to another. I think it’s the tragedy of life, and the charm of it. Some dreams can come true, others don’t, some absolutely cannot, and there are those that are still pending to have meaning. Isn’t it lovely that way?
Life is made of dream permutations, and vice versa. Is that statement unreasonable?
When I get frustrated about something, I store it in my hope-I-get-to-dream-about-this compartment inside my head—and/or heart, hoping somehow, at least, it comes true in my subconscious. I don’t really know the long term effects of this practice, but at least, it lessens my complaints at the moment. Yes, it keeps me sane. After all, I’ve been spending most of my waking moment alone with a toddler, inside a house where there’s not much to do (other than chores or parenting, of course) but think and dream.
End of thought.