To dream.

How many people can honestly say they remember their dreams? Do they refer to fleeting thoughts glimpsed in slumber, or do they speak of the hearts desire?

Many a dreamer will not tell, or hint of a difference there between. The first can be passed as nonsense, a fictitious nocturnal image and nothing more. The latter, of course, carries with it a burden of expectation, of judgment, and scorn. And humility.

How many are willing to share such a personal thought?

True dreams are as diamonds on a windblown shore. They are washed in the tides of hope, smoothed by the coarse sands of reality, and set ablaze by the light of action.

But diamonds are small things, easily lost. For the unwary, their diamond is swallowed by the sand, or surf, or sun. And thus, like so many diamonds, people squirrel them away in a safety deposit box.

They are shrouded in cold, dark metal. Secure. Forgotten. They are never allowed to shine, or risk being swallowed up by the world in a torrent of passion and fear.

They die.

But not all dreams die.

Some refuse to be tucked away, hidden from the world. They scream recognition, shriek for challenge and change. They fight to grow.

Some dreams consume their dreamer.

Like a wild garden they spring to life, dominating existence, blurring away all sense of time or caution. The artist is a puppet to its whim; painting, writing, building, working until they can not go on.

And then they do.

For it is only with this sense of abandonment that true works of art are born, through mindless passion and precision we see the rise of thought and literature and sculpture and design.

Form and formation flow together, harmonized, exploding!

And then, the dreamer wakes. He sees the creation. He realizes the dream- No!- the vision. It is done then, complete. The dream does not die, but lives on, a cocoon no longer.

It soars on the wings of truth, its final, corporeal form.

Who sends these dreams that will not wait? Who sends the visions which shape this thing we call reality?