For I have always been a seeker a dreamer and a ponderer on seeking and dreaming...

I dont know where dreams come from. Sometimes I wonder if theyre genetic memories or messages from something divine. Warnings perhaps. Maybe we do come with an instruction booklet but were too dense to read it because weve dismissed it as the irrational waste product of the rational mind. Sometimes I think all the answers we need are buried in our slumbering subconscious int he dreaming. The booklet right there and ever night when we lay our heads down on the pillow it flips open. The wise read it heed it. The rest of us try as hard as we can upon awakening to forget any disturbing revelations we might have found there.

when we are weary we speak lovingly of dreams as if they embodied our true deisres-What we WOULD have when that which we DO have so sorely disappoints us

How blessed are some people whose lives have no fears no dreads to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly and brings nothing but sweet dreams.

Put work into your dreams.

Because it begins to seem to me at such times that I am incapable of beginning a life in real life because it has seemed to me that I have lost all touch all instinct for the actual the real because at last I have cursed myself because after my fantastic nights I have moments of returning sobriety which are awful Meanwhile you hear the whirl and roar of the crowd in the vortex of life around you you hear you see men living in reality you see that life for them is not forbidden that their life does not float away like a dream like a vision that their life is being eternally renewed eternally youthful and not one hour of it is the same as another while fancy is so spiritless monotonous to vulgarity and easily scared the slave of shadows of the idea the slave of the first cloud that shrouds the sun... One feels that this inexhaustible fancy is weary at last and worn out with continual exercise because one is growing into manhood outgrowing ones old ideals they are being shattered into fragments into dust if there is no other life one must build one up from the fragments. And meanwhile the soul longs and craves for something else And in vain the dreamer rakes over his old dreams as though seeking a spark among the embers to fan them into flame to warm his chilled heart by the rekindled fire and to rouse up in it again all that was so sweet that touched his heart that set his blood boiling drew tears from his eyes and so luxuriously deceived him

I didnt feel like buying him the jacket he asked for for Christmas so I just got him a coat hanger with a sticky note attached that read Heres something for you to hang your dreams on pal.

If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time who still questions the power of our Democracy Tonight is your answer.

Seriously a thirty-something woman shouldnt be daydreaming about a fictional character in a two-hundred-year-old world to the point where it interfered with her very real and much more important life and relationships. Of course she shouldnt.

I love the freedom of my wings. I love the empty space above the ground. I rejoice in my freedom. Freedom is my religion. Peace is my God. Love is my worship.