So real, I could feel it
This past week I had dreams. Two dreams in particular. The kind of dream where you know you're having it, but the line between dream and reality is blurred. So blurred that you feel. Truly feel it. As if it's happening to you, right in that moment.
The first was a hodge-podge of things: celebrity, soap character, a tv-like storyline, and a small dose of reality. There was adrenaline, firing on all four cylinders, fear, and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I woke up scared but relieved, relieved that it was just a dream. Because minus the celebrity, soap character and tv-like storyline, it was something that easily could have happened. To anyone. And it was a relief to know that, at least for one day, people were spared.
The second dream ... the second dream, though, was beautiful. It had innocence, friendship, and love. The friendship was easy, natural, comforting. It was the kind of friendship that grew into love. The kind of love that's innocent, fresh, new, and pure. I was me, but I wasn't. A blonde, a singer, living in a wonderful apartment in New York City. He was average height, dark, the boy next door. He didn't care that I was a singer. I could be myself around him. And we fought back the feelings, afraid to tell the other, but eventually we couldn't fight it any longer. It was inevitable. It was natural. And it was beautiful. I woke with a smile on my face, butterflies in my stomach, and the steady beat of my heart.
These were the kind of dreams -- particularly the second one -- that make me want to jot it all down. It felt so real, the story was so absorbing and so beautiful, that I don't want to lose it. I feel almost compelled to write it all down so I don't lose it as time wears on and my memory becomes fuzzy. It may not even be that good, but how will I know if I don't get it all down? Then again, why am I even bothering to suggest it? My follow-through is lackluster, at best, and this will just be one more idea lost, like grains of sands slipping through my fingers.
But in that moment when I first woke, I felt happy, joyous, just like the girl in my dream.
And inspired.
The first was a hodge-podge of things: celebrity, soap character, a tv-like storyline, and a small dose of reality. There was adrenaline, firing on all four cylinders, fear, and my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I woke up scared but relieved, relieved that it was just a dream. Because minus the celebrity, soap character and tv-like storyline, it was something that easily could have happened. To anyone. And it was a relief to know that, at least for one day, people were spared.
The second dream ... the second dream, though, was beautiful. It had innocence, friendship, and love. The friendship was easy, natural, comforting. It was the kind of friendship that grew into love. The kind of love that's innocent, fresh, new, and pure. I was me, but I wasn't. A blonde, a singer, living in a wonderful apartment in New York City. He was average height, dark, the boy next door. He didn't care that I was a singer. I could be myself around him. And we fought back the feelings, afraid to tell the other, but eventually we couldn't fight it any longer. It was inevitable. It was natural. And it was beautiful. I woke with a smile on my face, butterflies in my stomach, and the steady beat of my heart.
These were the kind of dreams -- particularly the second one -- that make me want to jot it all down. It felt so real, the story was so absorbing and so beautiful, that I don't want to lose it. I feel almost compelled to write it all down so I don't lose it as time wears on and my memory becomes fuzzy. It may not even be that good, but how will I know if I don't get it all down? Then again, why am I even bothering to suggest it? My follow-through is lackluster, at best, and this will just be one more idea lost, like grains of sands slipping through my fingers.
But in that moment when I first woke, I felt happy, joyous, just like the girl in my dream.
And inspired.