Dreams of imagination

In the end of a dream there lies a thread. Some say it is the fine line of insanity. Others proclaim that it is the dotted line of 15 steps on the treasure island of our thoughts. Perhaps it is both, perhaps it is not.

Time spent in the corners of fantasy has shown us all one certain thing. In the end of our trip we are left only with a vague contour of what has passed. Memories of what we saw and did are elusive. As the conscious thought ceases its vacation, the dream retreats past a new border; its journey still incomplete.

As it is with all great trips, we simply do not wish it to end. With all our strength we try to hold on to those faint specks of something long ago passed. Just like water it simply dances through the walls of our grip, our trap. Just like sand, it continues to flow, it never stops moving. The tighter our grasp, the faster it runs. The more we search, the more elusive it becomes. The more we think, the less it shares. The less we try, the more it lives.

Déjà vues do not come alone. They come as remembrances of days we saw upon a summer night’s dream. They are interpretations we once witnessed in our slumber; with each familiarity that we never saw before we revisit a long forsaken dream.

At night or day, upon the closing of twin eyes or simply by the lines of a gaze within an always shifting horizon, a vision simply dares not withhold a visit. What has once been forgotten is that dreams not only visit us in sleep, they are with us from dawn to dawn and dusk to dusk. As time flows freely in the air, we dabble over dreams within its shallow depth and twist around its flow.

Our thoughts mix freely in our mind, our playground world, and cast away gems. The gems we take and crack with a mere bodkin until their essence is left without its shell. We take said substance into the forge of our passions and we use our tools to make magic.

We use our eyes to see new worlds and places. We toil with our ears to give voice to sounds and songs and cries of joy, of mischief. We use our hands to feel the way ideas shift in their place, the way they turn from rock to velvet or even to an emerald sea. We taste and feel the breeze; we use our mind as a master forger that shapes the clay of dreams and imagination into the finest crystals and the sharpest, clearest paints.

Our dreams are what nourish our spirit, our mind and body. They give way to our creative energy whilst making desires tangible, even if only for our mind’s eye. Creative force and makers of unseen worlds, they are bliss to live with, a bliss that comes when we let spirits roam. We dream, we roam and we live.