Dreams are… realized.
Dreams are restorative, of that, we are assured. My physician ordered sleeping pills during my active treatment for breast cancer and angst. A dozen years later, I’m still on the pill.
I sleep well and dream long.
It’s said that dreams are both the love letters and the hate mail of the subconscious. Medically, creatively, psychologically sound… let it go, as they say. (I tried to post a Youtube of “Let it Go” here, but Disney ripped it away)
The subconscious is my writing source, my impetus, my muse. The words I never got to speak, so as to save a situation or worse.
A story, a statement, an opinion, a curse. All just pours out, leaks out, surges forth – as if led by an unseen hand with a pen.
My brain is the puppeteer, the marionette, the master of my thoughts and, therefore, of my writing. I explore self: past, present, and future. Sometimes mining impressions that I didn’t know I had. I shock-and-awe myself as words emerge.
Vocabulary practice is elation. A miracle. A gift. A talent. A guide. A conscience. A vehicle for my soul.
A victory of my own. I conquer the beasts and dragons of the past. I problem-solve the future and assimilate present day.
While God is the author of history, with His free will and quiet direction, I am the author of mine, as secretary of the life inside me.