Dreaming a dangerous business. A bloody nasty affair, I should say. This is why it is primarily the domain of children. They have better defenses for these sorts of things.
Oh, but I have dreamed, once upon a time. They were beautiful dreams, with all the grandeur of winding marble staircases, ornate handrails and the staccato rhythm of power ricocheting in high stilettos off great foyers of old money. Oh, yes, but I have dreamed. And they were an exquisite occupation.
The danger in dreaming is when we hold on too long. Dreams are only made for two things– and one of them is to come true. The other is to die. But, for dreams to last a lifetime, oh, my brethren this should not be.
The pressure of dreaming is like that of stone forged in bedrocks, diamonds forged in fire, and coal formed from death. And for the heart to carry this weight, we were not made for that pressure. After all, a heart to fashion stone cannot love, nor weep at injustice, or laugh with the tender joy of a child. No, we were not made for this.
So, then, how do we handle the pressure of dreams? I have come to find that you can’t. They must either be realized or die. And…the worst part of dreaming…the absolute excruciating pain…is when they begin to come true. Because, as you watch each piece gently unfold before your eyes…it is terrifying. Exhilarating. But positively terrifying.
Because there it is..your heart. The deepest, most intimate parts of yourself, coming to life in tangible atoms and molecules, and color and hues and every shade in between. Your heart aches to protect them from harm, and yet, you can’t. Your dreams have met the world, in all its splendor and brokenness, and shades of compromise and complexity.
So you must let go. Give in and let yourself believe…that maybe….maybe it’s like the movies after all. Maybe after a movie like Braveheart, there is still an ending….like Cinderella.
This is why dreaming is such a ghastly lot. For the young, I say. They are better at these sorts of things. They know not the bitterness of years of wasted toil. They know not the soiled brow, and exhausted sleep of another day invested, with no assurance that it won’t come to naught.
The young only march on with all the fire they were created to burn. And yet, when they are tired, it is older, the wiser along the way…that give them rest.
And so it is, the intense pressure of dreaming.