These blossoms are ever so pretty:
These blossoms are ever so pretty:
It’s a challenge to talk about dreams. The true dreams, not the things one wants out of life or the things they dream about at night. Those are easy. The former are part of one’s identity and the content of the second you are not responsible for. If I should night-dream of being engaged to Delboy, I could share it with everyone and have a laugh. If I should daydream about it, on the other hand, people would most certainly think I have a major crush on him and that I have bad taste in men.
And that’s why sharing dreams is so difficult, so unwise. People tend to take them seriously. They become something quite other when shared. Frankly, even I would be more inclined to take them seriously once brought to the real world. While they are swimming around in my head, being nothing but stray thoughts and fancies, I’m not responsible for them. They are mine, but are not part of my identity. They are just visitors. Some I spend a little time with and hear them out, others are but fleeting glimpses into possibilities I want nothing to do with. Being prone to daydreams is part of my identity, but the substance of my dreams is an amorphous thing. I’ve never tried to define it or paid particular attention to it.
Sometimes, when I become conscious of the content of my dreams – most of the time I’m not – I can be a little surprised and amused. What on earth did I just dream of? Hold your horses, where do you think you are going with your thoughts? But of course, I usually carry on and pay no attention to reason or rightness.
I don’t dream very often these days. When I was younger, my favourite thing was to daydream myself to sleep. Sometimes I was quite annoyed when sleep came and I had to continue the following night. I even remember some of my dream landscapes. Things like a certain yellow wooden house with two-storeys. I lived in the upper storey and had a view of a vast empty field. Such dreams I indulged in and made permanent companions of for long periods of time. Maybe those would be part of my identity.
But then there is the other kind, the one-time dreams. Let’s suppose I entertained the thought of what a great monarch I’d make and how I’d rule the world. If I spoke of it publicly – if I said I’ve dreamt of ruling the world (or Europe) – I’d be taken more seriously than I’d ever have meant it. Psychologists would prick up their ears: hmm, delusions of grandeur? Narcissistic or bipolar personality disorder? Mania episode?
And so, one fancy is taken out of the millions and added to my personality map. I don’t mean to say that the things I daydream about have no connection to who I am and are unwanted intrusions, but that there are so many one-time idle fancies of no significance that extracting any would lead to severe misunderstandings. So they stay in the dream world. All the bizarre, evil and too beautiful things alike. My dream world really has no boundaries other than those of the imagination.
I can share a few, but most stay where they belong.
And now, one totally unembarrassing and uncontroversial dream: I caught myself missing the presence of flowers. To the point that if I had any space and not a cat that eats everything when in a bad mood, I’d get ten pot plants and fill ten vases with various flowers. Daffodils, roses, more daffodils, and hyacinths. Such a longing for colours and scents. I’m going to spam the blog with flower pictures as a result.