I spend a lot of time dreaming.

It’s nice being grown up because now I don’t have to hide to do it.  When I was younger, there was never a place where it was okay.  I always had to have a subterfuge, like pretend I was reading if anyone looked over at me.

There’s something about sitting, looking out and doing nothing that made others anxious to get me “doing something”.

Except for my aunt.  My aunt was a dreamer.  She would often sit and dream.  Sometimes we would sit together and just look out her big windows.  She lived on the 17th floor of a beautiful apartment building in Philadelphia and her view overlooked the Schuylkill River and the Philadelphia Art Museum.  Or we’d just look at the ocean if we were at the beach, say nothing and, for a good long while, just get lost in our dreams.  It was so satisfying.

My aunt was the only other person I ever met who dreamed as much as I did.  This was one reason why I so very much enjoyed being in her company.

Dreaming triggers my imagination.  I love imagining things I know others don’t think possible.

We’re taught (brainwashed) to think so logically, constantly living within the borders of “reality”.  To keep our feet planted solidly on the road called “reality” and don’t wander off.

It’s so much fun to break through, just to look at the clouds, ignore “reality” and start imagining a completely different world.  One in which people say exactly the right things, do precisely the right things, where amazing things happen, it goes exactly the way we want, and joy explodes around every corner.

I looked up the derivation of the word dream.  Between the years 500 – 1100 it meant joy, mirth, noisy merriment.  Pleasure.  Good stuff.

Then in the 1500’s a dreamer became an idler and meant someone who spent their life in inaction, wasting time.  Empty and worthless [I’m not making this up] because they weren’t working.

Somewhere in there, as a world, we stopped dreaming.

It would choke the life out of me if I had to stop.  I spend a lot of time doing it.  Fully awake.

I never let practical reality taint my dreams.  I have no use for logic when I’m dreaming.

I imagine all kinds of situations that would give me great pleasure, men and women I would be thrilled to interact with, a world that would give me joy, happiness.

My dreams are beautiful.  Vivid.   Full of glory.  Pleasure.  They leave me completely satisfied and refreshed.

No need to tell me dreaming is healthy.   It restores my soul and my optimism.

I dream a little every day and sometimes a lot on weekends.

No need to hide it.  See the clouds in the photo?  That’s what I’m looking at.  I’m not reading, I’m dreaming.

Wishing you the most beautiful of dreams.

Love,

Ingrid