by Steven Craig
Often, the darkest hours are just before dawn. There, our lives are in a sea of flowing, convulsive, soaring relaxation. On the dawn, time awakes us gently, much as a bird soars across the sky, much as a wave reaches upon the beach. We are recalled from what has been to what will be.
Perhaps, to dream once is not enough. Perhaps we cry having lost a fleeting moment within ourselves. We had paused and tasted the wine of time. To be lost there, away from the lives that we had lived. The joy of being, the carefree moments ... the touch.
Perhaps, to dream once will never be enough. We are too moved, we are hauntingly caressed by our memories. We desire to be free, but our eyes glow. We breath a laughter and move through time as though there was to be no end.
Perhaps, to dream once will never be enough. It will never be enough to hide us from anything. We will never really know what might have been. We will never have really lost anything that wasn't already there to be lost. We will never have what just isn't there to be had.
Perhaps we have dreamed because it was so dark, even as the winds blew the dawn towards us. Perhaps, a cloud delayed the sun from reaching out eyes. Perhaps ... it was still night.
It is our way to dream. Dreams are what we are made of. We dream our way to hope and health. We dream our fondest desires, our smallest pleasures, and pursue them across eternity. We feel our dreams most intensely just before the dawn. We feel the touch of the flower, the pounding of the surf, the thought, the special thought, the only real thought. Elation of the spirit comes then. And the minds eye sees itself in the brightness, not of light, but of life itself.
Perhaps, to dream once is a start of many dreams. And those are all the great and little things that flash across time. All of creation in an instant. A flash! ... and it is gone.
Perhaps, to dream once is to forget. We forget many of our dreams. The dreams mean that you are human, and to dream is to know your feelings. The dream that means so much just before the dawn, is the most painful. It is a sorrow that can rage in its own passion, if it is not forgotten.
Perhaps, to dream once is to remember. We remember little of our dreams. But what is remembered is a focal point, the source of a remarkable thought that will shine as a beckoning star all through the darkest night. What is remembered is what we really are, have been, will always be.
Perhaps, when we dream, we lay to rest the past. There, the passing time chases the darkness. In our beds, the damning thoughts, the gracing thoughts, the passing thoughts are given up to the past. All thoughts need a place to dwell. All memories need a home. We remember what they really are. They are us, to be sure, but they are the past.
Perhaps, the past that we have dreamed belongs to the ocean of time. We may stand upon the shore from time to time, and our feet may well splash within its waters. And it is the oceans spray that we feel stinging against our faces. It is that ocean to which we add our tears. We may indeed visit upon that vast shore often, and the waters therein will deepen.
But we are in dreams, not in the ocean of time. And there we belong. Time will have our memories, indeed, it will capture our bodies, and blow them with the dust and the foam of the sea.
Yes! To dream once will never be enough. For what are dreams but love itself. And we awake, for what we have been journalizing was a journey through a narrow, a dangerous, a splendid path. The most endearing and meaningful vapor of time, that only gift of time.
To love once is great, but it is hardly enough. For once we have loved, we must, we must keep on loving. Love has known our hopes, our pleasures, our sorrows, our nights, and our dawn.
And in time, we will realize that it is the epic event of our lives, the most brilliant victory, the most renowned event. What moved both time and night aside was a little thing, a simple thing. A beautiful thought, a powerful thought, a human thought. Truly, our most inner humanity, the dream, the touch, the sight, the spoken word ...
"I Love You"