On Dreaming.

Have I stopped dreaming?, I asked myself as I watched the prelude to a romantic comedy.

Lay the blame on the precocious weather, the impending intervention of nature soon flowing as red blood, or upon the innocuous ways that I have settled into the crevices of my life. A considerable proportion of this selfish desire to look back into my life is also dedicated to the uneven distribution of fun and growth. It is only natural that I would open my eyes and question what I questioned that day, Have I stopped dreaming?

The answer to this question is not ordinarily found. It is a simple answer nonetheless, the risks and capriciousness that one encounters on the search for the answer, there lies the key. I have dreamed of many dreams – large and small, tiny dreams which weave sublets of hopes and fears into dear old ones. I have also dreamed of beings which do not exist today, dreams which bear the hallmark of new generations, and dreams which are laid at rest as the tombstone is erected against the earth.

Bearing this grand scale of dreams, I see now that I have allowed the vagaries of life’s manifestations to hold the reins and the guards. Not only have the mediocre dreams of past been collected and affirmed into a judgment, newer dreams have been gradually resisted into admission.

Each day is each day. Each hour is each hour. The grandness of dreams have immersed themselves into the genetic codex of the now and continues as that. There are milder dreams – the thin crust of a pizza, the water moving in beautiful intelligence towards gravity, the premature awakening from slumber, the ring-less ears, the momentary stillness, the first summer rains.

I don’t know whether I miss dreaming. If at all, a genetic makeup inside misses it, the earthy flavours would rise to mask other scents. And, then maybe I could be free again.

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