From the day I was born, I’ve been an avid dreamer. All through my childhood, I’d eagerly share my nightly escapades with anyone who would listen. But as time went on, I found myself retreating into a cocoon of silence, born out of the bitter disappointment and frustration of being misunderstood.
Dreams are deeply personal. They’re a glimpse into the convoluted workings of our minds, offering a window into our innermost selves. Yet, I found every time I talked about my dreams, people would just laugh and make light of them. They’d dismiss them as frivolous, irrelevant, or downright weird. They clearly failed to grasp any significance from what I was saying, or worse, they didn’t care to even try.
At first, I told myself they were just being playful, that they didn’t mean anything by their apparent ignorance. But the more I shared my dreams, the more I realized that it wasn’t just a passing jest. It was a pattern. Eventually, I was encircled by a cycle of mockery and ignorance too unbearable that I simply retreated into the shadows. I was left to be isolated and alone in my uniqueness, refusing to conform to anyone else’s standards or expectations for who I should be and what I should do.
So, without even consciously realizing it, I stopped telling anyone about my dreams. I would share the intimate details of my subconscious only with my private journals and never with the world. The few times I did open up, it would end in a lost friendship. It was a lonely decision to become so private, but it was also a necessary one. My dreams are too precious to be treated with such callousness. They’re a part of me, a vital piece of my identity, and I couldn’t bear to have them belittled any longer.
Yet, even in my silence, I’d still dream. Every night, my mind still spin intricate fables full of spontaneous thought, vivid color, and strong emotion. I would wake up feeling exhilarated, moved, and sometimes even shaken to my core by the convoluted dreamscapes I ventured through. But more often than not, they were nightmares.
Even when I had a relatively happy dream, as soon as I would awake, those positive feelings would melt away, replaced by despair. I couldn’t share these experiences with anyone. I couldn’t express the beauty and complexity of my dreams; although even the horrors will have their merits. Only I knew the way my dreams intertwined with my waking life, how they shaped my thoughts and actions subconsciously, making me the person I was reluctantly becoming.
Over time, my choice to remain isolated from mockery and misunderstanding allowed me to discover a source of strength within myself. In my solitude, I developed resilience, borne out of the knowledge that I was living a life uniquely mine. My life would be governed by my dreams, my hopes, my fears, and my passions, with my nightmares as warning signs for where I could end up if I failed to do so.
Even as the world closed in around me, weighing me down with negative reinforcement, I continued to dream. By night, I’d explore the labyrinth of my mind and plumb the depths of my subconscious to seek out hidden truths and insights. Even when I couldn’t share these experiences with anyone, I knew that they were still the best part of me. These dreams were precious, unique, and meaningful, giving me a purpose by allowing me to have something to share.
One day, I knew I’d meet someone who would allow me to live the life of my dreams, one that was vibrant, complex, and deeply fulfilling. But even then, I knew that it would be someone just as lost as I was, and that our journey together may well be often lonely. This day did come for me, and here I am now. But it was a difficult wait, waiting for someone to share my dreams with for every day forward.
Now, I finally get the chance to share them with you, dear readers. Knowing that I would get here some day, in the end, was enough to keep me going.
~ Amelia <3