At what point do dreams end and reality begin? Is there a fixed point in time, a sudden realization, a cacophonous crashing when the two meet? Or is it more subtle... a shift in thought, a quiet surrender of hope gone weary? Anatole France once said that, "existence would be intolerable if we were never to dream." But what if your existence is that of which you dream?
I have always dreamt of living and working abroad, and by some stroke of good fortune, the amorphous soul desire and the physical bodily presence have sidled up together, taking on each other's characteristics, becoming wholly indistinguishable. In short, I feel as Edgar Allan Poe may have felt when penning the following:
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."
Yet all is not perfect in this world of dreamality. Take for instance my morning commute which is something of a laughing nightmare. It begins with a brisk walk to one of the busiest metro stations in Paris, a complex web of tunnels, stairs and harried, hurried people. I consider it my daily dose of claustrophobia and stress! At 9am, you'd think the entire city of Paris was trying to get out of town on the same train. I found myself laughing out loud at the absurdity of it all as I was practically lifted off my feet by the crowd pushing their way on, desperate to set foot in the train before the buzzer announced the closing door. One poor chap on the train across the way very nearly lost his masculinity to the automatic door as it breezed past his zipper, and I wondered how many body parts had been collected by the poor metro workers.
The Metro is a strange place to be, squished intimately by strangers on all sides, each one completely indifferent to your presence...unless of course, you step on their toes. It could very well be one of the loneliest places in the world, for no one takes notice of you, except the crazy accordion player who asks you to spare some change in return for a horrendous performance. Eyes darting back and forth or staring blankly ahead have apparently been forbidden contact with other's soul windows.
In this moment of accompanied solitude, a dream of mine crashed headlong into the reality of the moment, and shattered into a million pieces. I had dreamt of this 25-minute commute and the many ways I would spend the 50 precious minutes of my life. I would read the paper and be fully informed of important occurrences around the world. I would read Thoreau and Dante, returning to the US, my mind enriched. I would learn Italian and swing wide the door to communication with another people group. But alas, I am destined to be nothing more than a human sardine, left only with her thoughts...and her dreams.
— Melissa Lyne