On dreams


When I read books – or daydream – I absorb myself. At their end I am lost grasping for the world I have had to leave, without choice, without warning. My favourite books are those that offer up that world, or a philosophy , an existence that is beyond this one. Somewhere extra ordinary.

On closing a book at the last page my life becomes all too ordinary, all too real. I am small and I am insignificant beside my dreams.

I have finally watched Brazil by Terry Gilliam, my favourite director. Like Pan’s Labyrinth it offers a salvation rooted in dreams. In a world that disappoints, distraughts and destroys, losing oneself in fantasy provides a better life than that of reality. But these films themselves are fantasy. And when the credits roll you are left reeling. Knowing your own reality is waiting for you, at the end of every extraordinary dream.

Is it ok to escape each morning and evening, to allow yourself to dream along the commute, or – in this world of shoulds and musts and obligationss – is that the easy way out? Perhaps the smell of sweat of others’ humanity should be breathed in and absorbed, a reminder of your place in the world. One thing I do know, when sweet dreams fade into day, the sweat of reality smells far worse…


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