ST. ALBANS, March 13 – We all dream of betterment and more. Perhaps our dream quests define who and what we are. Some seem to live our dreams in the real.
And a few – more determined, more vigorous, more alive perhaps, they who must have more, more, more, especially in love – a few go further. Such is their want, they become polyamorous, love more expansively, or so it appears.
But even life’s most driven winners can’t win forever. Nothing lasts. Anyway, imagine how dull life wld be were we to actually have it all, to know it all – forever.
And dreams? May a dream be said to exist? And if not, now may it cease to be?
Perhaps there’s more to dreams than we may know. Perhaps their singular nature in some way precedes our little lives. Perhaps we are in some way the dreams of dreams raised up into that, which for want of a better word, we call reality.
And so to a fiction about a young woman’s dream that becomes a passing reality…
Three millennials – Rhiannon and her two guys – escape the trap of London internery, flat white success, and cycling death in ECIV, for the watercress beds of Hampshire, where choirs of nightingales serenade the free.
And the ghost of an old hippie walks through the woods on her trek to her Celtic dreamstate. While Rhiannon strokes her bump and feels the kick of new life within – and sighs contentedly. And so to a piquant little sorbet, to round things off:
DREAMS TOUCHING ON
A dream within a dream becomes
Dreamality profoundly real
We touch – o how we touch in verse
We are the dreams of dreams raised up
To he heart-beating wakefulness
In touching loves made one are we
To be, to be, to be set free
We touch our dream – to hear it sigh:
‘Do that again, do that I pray,’
‘That I, a dream, may feel this day.
We touch – o how we touch our dream,
With tender touching fingertips
We are made more than what we seem
To kiss – intrinsicately dreaming lips
In The Room With Three Doors
by R J Askew