DREAMS

What are dreams? Are they subtle spaces where the threats of sharp consciousness intervenes with reality? Are they voids through which mankind trembles forward until the breaking of dawn? Are they wafts of oblivion one feels while sauntering through life, dreaming of things that could be?

Dreams, as described by Freud are reflections of man's desires and events that have wrought deep marks into his mind. They are thoughts we keep buried and of whom we only dare to dream when we lose control of ourselves. Most would say that dreams occur only when we are slumbering or half-asleep. Yet, I would say that life itself is a dream from whose grasp we are released only after we journey to the beyond with Reaper.

If I would take the liberty this very moment to ask you, dear reader, if you are dreaming now, you would reply perhaps saying that you were not for you are laying here wide awake and that sleep did not encrust you in her embrace. How would you then know, reader, if your awakening was not a dream and that your dream was not your awakening? A very thin line separates our vague notions of who we are and how we will come to be.

Why then must we think of this life as a fortified snow globe that thunders down upon us drizzles, hail and blizzards and the room beyond a sanctuary separated by the glass which reflects us; our scarred hands, our withered lips, our forgotten eyes and the surface fogged by so many hands and warm fingers in this cold? Is the room beyond a paradise lost to us a long time ago, when we did not yet learn to dream?

Why vanity should shroud us when perhaps all our endeavours were only just a dream? Might a king awake upon a bed of straw only to gaze out at the field where he must labour on? Why must we be hunters and plunderers when we could be foragers and gatherers too? Was then all of our exploration, discoveries and inventions a figment of fiction? What was life then?

If it was indeed so then all of our failures, our unfinished sentences, our deeds that were left undone and the story we had yet not inked would all be finished and done when we awoke, for in this life or the next, for in the blood outliners or in the sharp glints of daylight, in the chasm of the unexplored and in our awakening or slumber, the choices we make shape us into who we are. They will always prevail and mold the matter that makes our souls. 

Then death would be resurrection and the moment we close our eyes will be the time we truly open them and the time we truly stop dreaming.