Perchance To Dream

Dream is a funny word.  Some say it comes from the Pig Latin; D(e) - the prefix for the removal of, and Ream - a standard stack of papers representing nothing.  This of course is merely a fantasy definition.  A hope for real meaning in a world that has no explanation.

The interpretation of dreams is something paychics and psychiatrists both offer to their clientele.  Men and women who claim to know more about what we desire in our hearts than we ourselves might comprehend. 

How do you feel about your mother?  I'm having those flying dreams again.  Are you basically happy?  Why should I grin like an idiot all the time.  Why are you unsatisfied?  Maybe Viagra.  Is there something killing me I can't understand?  I'm not afraid of mortality.  Does your life have meaning?  I looked in your desk. 

This all seems like a chimera, a mirage of empty echoing questions that serves only to fill a bank account and occupy an hour. 

What of the dream unshared?  The unspoken poem attracts no love.  The unheld hand gloved or not is made cold by this reality.  If we have wings, aren't we obliged to at least understand what flight means to us?

The permanence of these haunting specters threatens to drive us to madness.  Leaving the dreamer to contemplate cars and abandoned mansions of imagination.

Great leaders have dreams.  Or do we only share the same common lie?  Pretending the world is better than it is, and hoping someone else sees our base delusions and joins us in our trance.

We all dream.  We know the word from childhood as surely as we know the nature of our piggies.  We carry our rainbows in business suits and speculations.  Our future is as certain as the thought that draws our next breath.  We sleep and dream.  We grow silent and dream.  We laugh and dream.  We find the only constant is love and passion.

Dabuoy

ARE YOUUUUUUU! The Call of The Wild

My life is about one thing, the pursuit of a curative for my own restless nature.  In younger days I was misdiagnosed as having a fear of commitment.  I now know this to be a lie.  Aside from a healthy dose of experientially learned caution, I don't particularly indulge in fear.  I have found it tends to dull the flavour of things, leaving a musty wet blanket over the fires of passion and happiness.

I am a sensualist.  I am always seeking the next foolhardy adventure, the newest thrill, another conquest.  My head continually in the clouds, I still manage to maintain a firm footing with my old favourites.  Good food, drink, and conversation, all honing my wit and keeping the senses sharp.  The graceful saunter of a pretty girl accelerating my heart with possibilities.  The fanciful flight of music and song played with friends taking me on previously unheard journeys.

I love to putter.  Tending the garden brings me pleasure.  Fixing the million different things that seem to need my attention gives me a sense of home and hearth.  The idea of  a cozy corner where I can curl up like a kitten thrills the more subtle tones of  my nature.  I love to feed and nourish the people in my life with the simple gestures of a smile and a joke.

and then it happens...

That invariable moment where I can not be soothed or assuaged.  Each sensation merely a reminder I am nowhere I want to be.  Each tick of the clock reverberating within my bones and demanding with every fibre of my soul, I run.  Run far, run fast, run down, run away, run out, run off.  I want to keep my run on sentence from being run of the mill.

Most of the time there is only one answer.

Are you going my way?

Dabuoy