Kate muses over her coffee that,
"Its Okay to dream – It appears that our deepest desires and dreams align with the essence of who we are. Therefore the more we align with that essence, the more our life holds meaning, purpose and fulfilment. So don’t discard your fantasies as merely wishful thinking. Honour them as messages from the deepest part of your being about what you can do and directions you can choose. And let it be said that everybody builds a dream in their lifetime, therefore you are either going to build your dream, or somebody else’s. So build your own!"
Well I was reading a blog last October about a dream that inspired a story. The writer then mused about "dreams".
and I replied thus:
Dreams? We all have dreams. Dreams,can be attained academically, materialistacally and with ambition and determination. These are within our conscious control. The chemically induced visions of sleep are the very soul of our existance as sentient beings. These ancient memories and visions bubble gently away and occasionaly burst into our sleep induced consciousness. On awakening, our memory then assimilates this "new" data with our own past experiences. Often the dream is blurred, rarely is it crystal clear!
How many,unlike your "Gaia", have escaped into oblivion? The majority never to be repeated! Neither secular nor religious philosophers have explained the phenonoma. If your dreams provide you with the inspiration evident in your writings then ..dream on!
Which reminds me that we have had no poetry for a while and I can nt resist the link, perchance to dream…….
This is Hamlets soliliquy: He has just learned that his uncle killed his dad, the late King, and then married his mother. Which has upset him somewhat.
To be, or not to be,–that is the question:–
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?–To die,–to sleep,–
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to,–’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die,–to sleep;–
To sleep! perchance to dream:–ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,–
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns,–puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!–Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.