Sometime while I was trapped in a plane, I looked outside and saw vast hues of snow drifting in the sky. Above the clouds, but below the freshwater blues of the sky, I existed. I couldn’t quite see the sun. It gave a shining light that beautified everything it touched yet I couldn’t quite see the star myself. It is the kind of star that gives life where it reaches and takes life with it when it goes to sleep. If I transform into Icarus and become lovers with Sun, will my wings melt into ashes or will they withstand Sun’s passion?
A dream is a sun we gravitate to because it gives life and purpose to our existence. It’s a star that can’t be looked at directly, but just from afar. If we look directly at it, we might incarnate Oedipus’s fate but if we don’t thrive in its light, then we’re left weeping like Hestia and motion becomes a faraway thought. How near a dream can we live, I always ask myself. If we touch a dream, does it chatter or do our wings burn and there’s nothing but to fall? Do we let it become our center or a center among others? There’s no glass answer and -perhaps- that’s where the beauty of dreams lies. However, it does come to mind from a wise man who guided my childhood that we shouldn’t forget to live.