Dream

Sometimes I am amazed at the ease with which I am moved, or touched.

A casual mention on the radio, a flashing thought after a commercial on television, a line in a book I am reading at bedtime, the scribbling of a man who died in 1955. . . all of these things burrow into my mind and morph into personal viruses.

They crawl into my creative consciousness, eating holes into memories so long forgotten I don't dare claim them as mine, opening worm holes into adventures I have yet to have.

I call them dreams. My body thinks they are real and maybe they are -- for the moment.  My heart races, I perspire, my muscles ache from the exertion.  My moods flow from terrified, to morose, to ethereally in love. 

I can see why some Native American tribes believed the dream world was the real one.  It certainly seems like a viable other-one.

I wonder if "crazy people" are only those who have got one foot stuck in both worlds, or if Rip Van Winkle was only vacationing in this chaotic world where the power of the human mind is recognized and realized in all its potential.

When I am asleep I experience the purest form of time present, time past and time immemorial.  It is kind of like playing a musical instrument.  I use the same fingers to play the keys, blow into the same hole, but it's only in tune when I get it just right and that is an infinitesimal difference in the shape of my lips, the direction of my breath, the speed with which I blow.

My dreams make me believe that life is much more malleable than I truly believe and that it is in the believing that these things come to pass.  You can't fake believing.

I suppose the next best thing is acting like I believe. In a way, that is like practicing.  The longer I do it, the better my chances are for discovering my own potential -- I just have to believe that is enormous.