My dreams are wonderful. Essential.
I think they're part of why I can write (besides the obvious fact that it's a God-given talent).
At night, my brain pulses with the dreams, and in the morning, my word bank is overflowing again. It's almost like recycling--my mind reuses the scenes of the day and adds brilliant colour to the remaining words; and then, while my word bank is repleneshing, the colours mix in with the other words and SHWOOP! the word bank is now colourful and vibrant again.
And I wake up, and I am FULL.
It's quite, really, truly, amazing. Indeed.
Yeah. I'm a dreamer.
But not that kind, if you follow the link. Although I think that would be pretty cool, lucid dreaming, I'm a little wary still. But...I love dreaming.
Honestly.
There is a love/hate relationship with the morning that I have... I hate waking up, because that means losing my Dreams, parts of Dreams. But I love waking up, too. Remembering the Dreams, seeing the sun come up (waking up early is amazing. Seeing the world wake up with a cup of Tazo tea in one hand and a book or blanket in the other is the closest to heaven I've been), and just the general peacefullness of early morning is the most beautiful thing I've felt. It's a spiritual experience, definitely.
Dreams...
I think...that Jesus delights in giving us Dreams. They're so...ethereal!
I wonder if the Dreams are all around. All purple and rich and fizzing with life...and others still mellow and pulsing with shadows and puddles...
Well.
Who reads this? Who will read this?
Sometimes my dreams are framed by grey, tinged with green and black. And other times, they're so sagged with colours and flying spurts of liquid that it's hard to stay sleeping. They swoop with wings of sunbeams, and blanket the horizon in dreary snow.
Ok. I will go look for those dreamy tree(puddles) now.
Hold fast to dreams,
For if dreams die,
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams,
For when dreams go,
Life is a barren field
Filled with snow.
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