What May Come

I don’t know how you feel about dreams, but I have a love-hate relationship with mine. I don’t mean interpretive dreams that would make Sigmund Freud drool. I mean dreams of those realistic, just-out-of-reach daytime things.

I have difficulty remembering most of my dreams. Apparently, that’s indicative of a good night’s sleep. I’m in agreement with this, not for the aspect of deeper sleep but merely because I don’t have to recall the things which will never be. Unfortunately, I typically remember my dreams when they’re real.

Upon recollection, I’m unsure if the dreaming is for me and what I want, or some past memory or a portent of what is meant to be. I tend to dream of people I care for and people who I have unresolved feelings about. It might not always be romantic, but it usually is. I’ve dreamt of friends I wanted more from, of things I don’t think could ever be. I dream of unfulfilled moments loaded with tension and uncertainty.

My dreams are too real to be real. My dreams are those moments where I think my best self or worst self take charge, living in the moment. My dreams are fearlessness and bravery, delivering as much joy as sadness. My dreams fill me with fear and anxiety about things I’m too afraid to act upon.

You dream of a sweet kiss or a long exchange of murmured secrets with a dear friend-you-want-more-from, only to wake up and discover the dream isn’t real. Well, that’s my dream. You couldn’t call it a nightmare because nightmares are terrifying. Nightmares are hellish and unreal. The worst part about my dreams is that I can’t call them nightmares. They’re not ghosts of the past but some sort of wistful future I’ll never truly experience.

I can’t make someone care for me any more than they could make me care for them. What’s worse, those dreams which I know will never come to fruition  or those dreams which come from inaction? When you dream of merely having a conversation with someone, how bad can that dream really be? Dreams are only dangerous when they fill your head with ideas you can’t act upon. Those actions can’t be taken because they’re not yours to take.

You can’t force someone else’s hand. You can’t force them to be who they are not. Dreams are dangerous in that way. They taunt you with the subtlety of realistic hope for possibility and potentiality. They motivate and inspire as much as they fill you with existential dread. I guess I can take solace in the fact that my dreams aren’t real. I can find peace in knowing that dreams of a kiss or those shared secrets never actually happened. My restlessness doesn’t happen in the solidity of daylight.

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