Why have dreams?
When I first googled this, the results were, “they help you store important memories and things you’ve learned”. Agreed. Those are our unconscious sleeping dreams though. In this case, I am talking about the conscious dreams that imply an anticipated state of happiness upon arrival.
Having a dream gives me clarity and a hypothesis of how I want to live life and aim towards. It’s like a roadmap of where I think I want to go and can change along the way.
As for my childhood or present- day dreams… they are ever-evolving.
When I was in kindergarten, I loved art class. Vincent van Gogh was a Dutch fella, and he was THE man. I loved his starry night painting. The story from his art made him out to serve as a heroic image.
I daydreamed about the idea of a life where I got to create whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. I later thought that living in the Netherlands was a dream of mine. Studying at the University of Amsterdam in 2017 certainly is one of my fondest memories. I’d rather be a doer than a dreamer or an “ideas gal”.
I feel like my dreams are a bunch of mosaic tiles that look beautiful from afar, but up close, look like a tangential mess of dangerous glass scattered everywhere without much linear sense.
I can’t help but probe further and ask myself: What is the difference between a dream and a desire? Are dreams similar to goals or is that ‘Productivity Jen’ kicking into gear?
I don’t know if I’d define myself as having those BIG lofty dreams. Sure, I love to imagine and have heroes I crave to be more like. It depends how I define a dream and the scale it’s on.
I knew that I had a desire to be a writer when I was younger, but I didn’t know why or how. I hated reading. It made me look stupid given my dyslexia. It was a barrier to say the least. Regardless, Anne Frank’s diary served as a north star to me. She was an ordinary girl, like any of us, who shared a priceless story.
While on family vacations growing up, my sister thought I was crazy staying up late to put pen to paper. I had to capture my adventures. I didn’t know why. I just did.
It feels cathartic to me to re-live for a few minutes my favorite parts of the day.
To be a writer isn’t any glamorous dream, like treasure to find at the Great Pyramid of Giza or to play on the Notre Dame football team or achieve the heavyweight boxing title.
I don’t want my dreams to be led by my ego or pride. I want them to come from inward and within. Dreams are, after all, what makes life joyous rather than merely tolerable.
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This was originally published in Letter 97 on February 11, 2022
