I don’t talk much. When you ask me how I am, you can expect to hear “fine.” When you ask me what’s going on, you can expect to hear “nothing.” I’ve always been this way, even as a child. I was always a quiet kid. And when my mom would ask how my day was, it was always fine. When she asked what I did at school, my first response was always nothing. This would entice my mother to say, “Now come on, you did nothing all day? You learned nothing? What am I sending you to school for….” Blah, blah. And so I would match it with meticulous, hour-by-hour details of what my day was – from dressing for school to getting off the bus, minute details.
The only other time I ever spoke so much as a child was when I was retelling my dreams. This is the only time I would ever relate painstaking details without prodding – ask my brother and sister, it was painstaking. Any time I would ever begin a sentence with, “I had this dream last night,” they would run. Even Mom would only last for the first half hour. I would remember every detail of the good dreams. These were the only things as a child that I would talk about without fail.
I’m a dreamer. Can I stop that? Should I? I feel as if the reality of life is often like the audience of my family as I recall my dreams. It is easily bored with my fanciful ideas and imagery, my farfetched desires and wishes. It rolls its eyes at my endeavors to fulfill my dreams, and often blatantly asks me to shut up already. And to be honest, the lack of a friendly audience is frequently frustrating and disappointing – I have so much to say, won’t you just please listen!
But then other times, as I did as a child, I am able to continue my monologue – raising my voice to ensure that my babbling siblings and busy mother could still hear me though they have moved on to other activities, leaving me shouting on the bed about the caves I ventured the night before. But as a child I would go on quietly to school to follow rules and soak in some knowledge; now I feel more action is necessary. Life is a tough audience, but I’m pretty sure my dreams will one day, eventually with time and effort, be captivating enough.
All men dream: but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of the day are the dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible. This I did. - T. E. Lawrence
