Dreams

A lost friend once told me that sleeping was a waste of time, a drain on your life, because nothing is accomplished during your respite. Occasionally, I would concede, though secretly clinging fast to my ideal of naps and sleeping in. Sleeping was the fastest way to pass boring hours, and the dreams that resulted were more beautiful than any reality I could have created in the same timespan. It is not to say I would waste my youth unconsciously whisked to a magical and frightening dreamland, but that my dreams have as much worth as my memories. Philosophically, the past is nothing but a personal interpretation, a collection of memories. There is, of course, "concrete" evidence the majority these events definitely happened, but for others, the only proof of existence is intangible recollections. If I am still loved in my dreams, and it is as beautiful and moving as past reality's, and brings me to tears when it is dashed by the morning's duties, then those "memories" hold a fonder place than the dull moments spent wandering my house in search of a spectacle.