Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. -Edgar Allan Poe
I was always the kid in school with a wandering mind: despite being told to rein it in, I managed to learn how to harness it, adapt via multitasking, learn how to do more than simply stare at a whiteboard. I’d pour it into various shapes, task it to do that which I thought rather more interesting than math, delve voraciously into fantasy and fiction every chance I could get, gorge on learning that which fascinated.
It’s a good thing, this daydreaming, because for whatever reason, I am one who doesn’t remember my unconscious dreams. From what I’ve been told by others, I certainly have dreams–apparently, during my time working for Apple, I once sold my husband an iPad, and on another occasion bartered cantaloupe for some other item–but it’s a rarity that I remember more than the vaguest impression for longer than a few minutes after I wake, and after that all I am left with is the frustration of knowing that I did dream, that I did remember–sort of–and, now, it’s gone.
There are a few, of course, that I remember. There’s the reoccurring ones that woke me regularly as a child, always-forever-running away from a wolf in an orchard only to find a tall fence blocking my escape, sometimes featuring friends or family; not a dream a youngling likes to have, nor to be one of the only ones she remembers.
But daydreams replace those, suddenly growing like a fairytale garden from the floors to cover the whiteboard in ivy, the teachings becoming birdsong, other children fading to create a paradise for a child who only wants to fly–
“Would you read for us, please? Third paragraph, please? Page twenty-seven… are you even listening?”
© Sara Hunt and Rosevoiced, 2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.