When I was a child I was taught to track my dreams. I would wake up and immediately let my family know what I had dreamt of. My mom believed in the power of dreams. Just a week ago, I came across an old dream journal of when I was in transition, couch surfing, hoping to one day have a place of my own.
I read through that journal in a wistful state of mind. I had nightmares, incoherent dreams and heroic dreams. In all, I was always aiming for a better world and trying to find my footing in such a better world. I dreamt that I was the key to bringing about good and dismantling evil. What a wild ride of dreams.
In my travels across the globe, I have come across other people’s dreams.
They often scrawl them across a wall leaving their name and the date of that dream behind.
There is no better place, in a way, than the Berlin Wall, to read such dreams.
Often, our dreams are very basic: Just to be remembered and have left a trail of our selves behind or to have been there when the moment counted. What ever that moment may be.
To dream is to live
I live for a better place
My name sings today