Dreams. An odd word, isn't it? For it means two very different things. Dreams are your goals, your aspirations. They are also the visions that come to you in sleep. Why do we use the same word for them?
I am beginning to fear that my dreams are interfering with my dreams. I fear I may, in fact, be addicted to dreaming. I spend my life dreaming now, one or the other, asleep or awake: the two definitions wrestle with each other for control of me, like a rag doll, I am pulled back and forth, in and out, feeling nothing but stretched and shamed.
I am sick. I am damaged. I sleep. I truly think if I were to lie down right now and time was of no issue I could conceivably sleep forever. I am a warped sleeping beauty and this is no fairy tale. When I am awake, I never wish to sleep. For I know that the moment I do it will take me, and I will be at the mercy of my dreams. I will wrestle for sleep and it will fight me, but once it comes it will not let go, and I shall remain all day, dreaming, escaping. For in my dreams there is no chronic pain, there is no poverty. There is also no reward.
I have begun to feel pain in my dreams, something that is supposed to be an impossibility. Yet I do. Is this because more of my life is spent dreaming than awake? I often begin to tell someone what happened to me in my dreams last night, but I stop short. They won't understand, they won't see it like I do. Like I took a trip, like I'm recounting an anecdote. Because for me, dreams are the reality.
When I awake, the dream is of the utmost importance. I must recall it, must not let it go. But as I try to unravel its meaning, the tendrils of dreams dissolve around me like smoke. They don't make sense in this world. Once I dreamt that my soul was an apple. In my dreams, this made perfect sense. But when I awoke I was lost. I fear I may be in real danger of forgetting which is the dream. It takes me so long to come back to the world, back into myself, when I awake from dreaming. Most people spend seconds in that in-between place between dreaming and awake. I sometimes spend an hour. I used to love that place, used to hold onto it with all my strength. Now it holds fast to me.
Awake, I am lost in dreams of another sort. Endless planning, endless anticipation of a life I never do enough to achieve. I dream of being a writer, of making my world come alive. My waking moments are spent in the gardens of Gaerdon House, in the Forest of Firle. I want so desperately to make them real. To replace the maddening dreams that I cannot control with the beautiful ones that are at my command.
I beg you please, release me from these dreams - these lovely, fickle captors, drawing me in with false promises of a false life - and grant me my true dreams, the ones I live for when I break the chains of dreaming.