To Dream of Dreams, That May Come True

I had a dream that was so strange.

In my dream, I had dreams;
I had aspirations and plans.
In my dream, I had hope,
but that wasn't the strangest part.
In my dream, I had high hopes;
I had hope beyond what I believe.
(Beyond what I can now believe.)
This dream had certainty,
or at least reasonable predictability.
Not of great things,
but of small, regular things.
It was in that regular and small
that dreams could dare to grow tall.

This dream world was boring;
it was a stage-set of no consequence.
Boring, at least if taken by itself.
Not the boredom that pacifies or paralyzes.
A reliability in what is known, what is done, what is expected.
A reasonable certainty in values and belief.
It was a humdrum-ness that you know,
and that you can fall back on:
A bareness that is static but sustainable.
It leaves you unfulfilled,
but leaves you alive and able...
Able to dare to dream of more.
Given permission and possibility to try for more.
A more that can fail, or maybe will fail.
But if the mirage evaporates,
you will still have the desert,
with its harsh but sustaining habitat
that through habituation, you know well enough
to keep yourself alive.

I had a dream that was so strange.
In my dream, dreams were possible,
but they were not certain.
In my dream, dreams were not grand.
They were deep and serious;
they were vital and originary;
they were aimed to create what inspires.
But they were humble in their needs,
in their greed and ego.