Dreaming

I remember when I would sit at home on a rainy day and read, then write. It was clearly a form of escapism, empathy building and dreaming. Reading, not people were what inspired by initial attraction to adventure. As strange as it sounds, the more I sat the more I was pruned for adventure.

As I sit here, the sun shining behind my back, it suddenly dawns upon me that I haven’t reflected on this strange invitation into escapism for a long time. After waltzing through the calendar with a kaleidoscope of faces and only a handful of books, I am suddenly stunned by the velocity at which life as changed. And it has led me to once again conclude that I have changed from my experiences and yet have not budged at all.

It matters so little whether or not we’ve already yet experienced what makes us ourselves. Intent, that freshly forged blade that we keep sheathed in our hearts, is far more potent than a laundry list of accomplishments. When a mind is bent on a singular goal, thoughts gain greater power than physical objects; indeed, perseverance is the only separator from failure.

Without action, dreams are like buried bombs, but without dreams what could catalyse and direct masses of minds into rigorous action? While action lies dormant for years without decomposing, buried dreams fester and outlive their action counterparts. If this does not convince one that dreams are far more potent than one thinks, answer me this: what directs our mundane actions, our worthless lives? It is not love, for even love is not without its faults; the only form of perfect love only exists  in dreams.

But we needn’t aim for perfection; life, in its mundaneness, is perfect too. Reality is a machine that is only perfect when it is broken; little bits of it break off at a time, stirring a constant cauldron of improvement and action. These improvements often drive us away from our dreams, but sooner or later, we are drawn inexplicably back, now more equipped to patch tires, fix the steering, shine the windows.

It isn’t that I haven’t moved; it’s that I’ve come full circle. Each adventure has one point and that is to return home. Not the home, perhaps, but a home. Home used to just be as good at my imagination and rotating stacks of reading material were.  Now I know that home can exist anywhere in the world; when away from my physical home, I always take care to bring a familiar book or pick my brain for relevant memories. I came back from adventure equipped with the realization that we carry our homes in our minds, and our homes are only as strong as we make them. And our minds are only as strong as our dreams are.

Strengthen your dreams.

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