Why do people dream?
Because reality is boring. That’s why.
Because every single person on this earth is a dreamer.
However, you’ll find that there are different types of dreamers. Here are a few of them.
These are the people who are content with dreams that slot neatly into reality. I would like to be famous one day. I would like to be rich. I wish to meet my true love. I want to be successful at my business. I want to be admired. They are resourceful, confident, and friendly people. These are the kinds of people who love Hollywood entertainment – chick flicks, action movies, etc. – and spend money on large screen televisions and overpriced popcorn. They are content, and feel comfortable and even safe inhabiting reality. For them, reality and all its possibilities hold all the wonders they could ever desire.
These people love to escape reality, and fall in love with fantastical worlds and the characters that inhabit them. Life-dreamers are the people who buy tickets to midnight movie premieres and treasure every item in their Lord of the Rings merchandise collection. They weep heart-tears over the fact that they can’t actually attend Hogwarts, or find a magical ecosystem of fairies at the bottom of their garden. They are often avid readers of science-fiction and fantasy, and wish magic truly existed in the boring, mundane world, and that they could go on fantastical quests just like the heroes and heroines in books. That there could be an edge of danger to the real world in the form of warlords and evil wizards and witches. Reality is something to be tolerated for them, like the shabby clothes they have to wear everyday to look respectable. Really, they’d love to just chuck the whole thing and go magic full-time.
Contrary to their name, soul dreamers are the most realistic of all three groups. You’re right, they say. It is a godless world. We’re just a ball of spinning rock twirling around a hot gaseous entity in the fathomless dark waters of a sea of other galaxies. We’re all going to die, and the chances of any of becoming filthy rich or soaring to the heights of stardom are negligible. Magic does not exist. We know, we know, they say, very patiently, very quietly.
Yet to them, reality is like being a grub stuffed in the slick encasing of a chrysalis, jostling and thrashing, waiting for the day when the darkness splits at its seams and light floods into the world and they unfurl and stretch their ragged wings as a glorious, glorious butterfly, all the while knowing it never will.
For these people, reality is an intolerable, interminable nightmare. No. Really.
It is being crammed in a tiny disappearing box and being abandoned by the grand magician, the only one who can finish the trick.
It is being frozen, open-mouthed, in a block of blue-white ice, while the world passes by heedless.
It is wanting to use your own blood to paint out the world.
You will not find these people reading biographies or non-fiction books. You will not find them watching Hollywood movies. You will not find them squealing over Harry Potter books. Instead, you will find them walking about with a weary look in their eyes, a shuffle to their steps. They may not meet your eyes, and wince at the roar of highways. Sometimes, looking at them, you wonder if they are all there. Frankly, they look a bit crazy.
For these people, reality is a death sentence. Reality plucks out their hearts, unravels their veins. And to stave off the pain of dying everyday, they resort to their imagination, to fiction, to books, to writing, to dreaming. These things are not places of delight and solace to be visited at the end of a long day. They read and imagine to catch a glimpse of the world they truly belong to. They read and imagine because if they did not, they would die. They clutch books to their hearts with the fervour of drowning men, as if wishing they could become one with the magic inscribed on the pages if only they hold on tight enough.
They are tiny, ethereal, glowing fairies trapped in lumpy, fleshy, rude human bodies, and they are lost and wandering, and wanting to go home.