Of a Dreamer.

A few weeks ago, I called my mom. Not a big deal right? Only it is. Because my mom has a million kids, so we never talk. Anyway, it wasn't the brightest time of my life, but I didn't let it show. My mom just knows things. She's the most intuitive person I've ever known. Even fiction has yeet to create a charachter with as much wisdom and perception as my mother. So the next day, I got a message from her saying she was sorry she couldn't talk longer, and asking whether everything was okay.


" I mean REALLY okay? I love you, my beautiful dreamer!"


I never responded. But it got me to thinking - how did she know I was a dreamer? Like I said, I don't talk to my mom much. I've never really opened up to her about my deepest hopes and fears. Why does she consider me a dreamer?




Not too long after that, I woke up one morning with a text from an old friend. He told me that the movie Midnight in Paris reminded him of me. After confirming that I didn't reminded him of "some douchey chick" (cough - thanks Alex) he told me that he related me instead to another girl.


"She reminded me of the Diana that loves Paris and dreaming."


Later I was talking to him him about how Home's kind of in transit right now. He smiled at me, and said "That's the Diana I've always known." So is my tendency to introvert and over-analyze everything what makes me a dreamer?


It's true, I tend to get lots of ideas in my head and I can get pretty discouraged when I come back to reality. The other night I was talking to my friend Sarai about how I want to travel and live a penniless existence and learn all the languages I possibly can, etc etc etc. Yesterday I did some more dreaming about becoming a pilot and a music box maker. And then I realized... I don't know how to even going about doing any of these things. I doubt they're even possible for me. Turns out, I tend to be quite the realist as well. How can that be?


Well today I came across a quote. I don't know who said it (that's right - I finally found a source less credible than Wikipedia. Namely facebook) but it goes something like this:


"See, the dreamers need the realists to keep the dreamers from soaring too close to the sun. And the realists? Well without the dreamers, they might not ever get off the ground."


I like this quote, because either way I end up in the sky :)


So that's me - a realist with an open mind, a dreamer that's often disappointed. A free spirit, or as my sister interprets that, a Bird. But that's a post for another day.

The reason I'm thinking about all this is because I had two very distinct dreams last night. And I never remember my dreams. In fact, I always thought that that was why I daydreamed so much - to make for the dreams I could never hold on to from the nighttime. But one of these really impacted me.

I have a friend who left recently. And even before he moved away, he might as well have been gone. He wasn't in my life at least.


In my dream, I was by myself at a dance. Everyone around me was dancing with someone. And I just looked around, all alone. Then suddenly someone grabbed my hands. I turned around and it was him. 


"I missed you."


He smiled, a wordless apology. And we waltzed away.


Certain things weren't right about it. His collar was messed up, and he was all fuzzy around the edges but that's the way things are with dreams. The small glitches are the price we pay to see wild and wonderful things come to life. Maybe that's why our daydreams can never be - everything in the world is to real. Funny little breaks in reality like purple clouds or lapses in time might just be necessary to solidify the impossible.


My realities are backwards. In real life I hope for the impossible while in sleep I try to escape the truth.


I have this defense mechanism that works with memory dreams. When I'm trying to suppress bad experiences (usually after a relationship-gone-rotten) I have dreams about that person. But they're not dreams made up by my subconscious - they're me, reliving moments I've shared with that person. Then after I've dreamt the memory, it fades. All I have left are traces of it. Just enough so that I can recall it, but so that I have no attachment to it. It's like reciting facts from a history book. It's effective, but it hurts at first. For a long time, I can't sleep. The dreams haunt me. But then the dazed apathy sets in, and things are less painful. They're forgotten.


It's nice to be numb, but I want to live. I don't know if I even know how to cope with pain, because it never really gets better - it just dies. The wound is technically still there. But then again I guess that's the thing about scars...


"They're always there. That doesn't mean they're not healed."


Today was a memory -flashback kind of day. Someone I thought I had finally blotted out resurfaced. I passed by certain places with certain special moments tied to them, and felt certain things. And it was okay. Maybe I'm finally okay. Hm.


Well, sweet dreams everybody. And may they all be realized.