I believe in dreams.
To me, there has always seemed to exist a reality far more meaningful and honest than the one we are keen to observe in our daily lives. The possession of dreams is the one attribute that all human beings have in common; dreams not being the wistful meanderings of the mind, but the desperate yearnings of the soul. Our dreams are the intangible forces which direct us though our own, and into one another’s lives. As our instincts guide us in sustaining ourselves physically, our dreams, secret and intimate, sustain our spiritual selves.
They are the nuanced, complex, clandestine existences that though entirely our own, live beyond us.
What would all our human capabilities for imagination and fantastic creation be for except to construe our own worlds, our own retreats, and ultimately our own salvation?
What do we, as individual human beings, possess that distinguishes us from one another?
Our silent cries of despair and joy; our sideways glances and secret fantasies.
What are we, but the bearers of our dreams?
Ultimately, our lives are not – could never be – measured by anyone other than ourselves. The wise person does not scold themselves for falling short, but takes mindful account of whether or not they dared to dream, to cling to hope, to have allowed themselves to delve into the brilliantly shrouded realms of unseen reality.
There is nothing frail about the human spirit. It thrives, borne upon the wings of dreams. And though we are born knowing that our earthly lives will eventually end, we take refuge in the honesty, the immortality, and the singular perfection of our dreams.
How then, could we ever lack the strength to go on?
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