All that we see

I wonder how many people in the blogosphere started one because they want to write. How many want to be a Writer, an Author?

I’m one of them. I admit it. You probably can’t tell from what I post here. My ramblings about this movie or that. My short little posts which really are just to direct you to someone else who has already said it all. And said it much better.

But I do still dream.

I dream – not so much of the fame and fortune – of putting something into the world which brings some happiness, some inspiration, and maybe lights the fire of imagination in someone else the way stories, books, plays, and poetry have done for me.

And I dream of stories.

Every day. Almost non-stop.

I dream of characters. I dream of situations. I imagine quips of conversations or think, “What would this person do if put into this situation?” I feel imaginary breezes and smell fire and roses. I hear the voices – even though I too often recognize my voice in the background.

But I never seem to take my dreams to word. On the, oh so rare, times when I do, there is something lost in the translation from mind through my body and out through my hands.

It’s like trying to capture a dream upon waking. The harder I try, the less the memory resembles the source.

Smoke on a windy day.

But the fire hasn’t gone out yet and so I keep dreaming.

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