To sleep, perchance to dream...

'Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain'
John Keats
Keats, though bonkers in many respects and with a penchant for gothic extremes and 'demon-moles', was a man after my own heart when it came to dreams. Despite me actually coming after him, but no matter. There is a ceratain safety, and thus a comfort, to be derived from experiencing no pain or displeasure when sleeping or fantasising (though arguably nightmares cannot be said to be a barrel of laughs), and one is free to be immersed in whatever path is taken be the mind, independant of experience. This lack of actual experience and true reality does, I admit, hinder one in sensing joy also but who needs this when completely enveloped in unthreatening and soothing nothingness? Being rudely awakened (especially be mechanical beeps) destroys the effect and forces the realisation that the tedium must be faced. Not that it is all tedium; it just seems that way when the wonders of dreams have been so suddenly interrupted and the process of waking is forced upon us. Anything can happen in dreams, things far beyond the possibilities of real life, and I refuse to believe that to live in a fantasy world, where evrerything is vivid, colourful and ceaselessly amazing, is to live a half-life or a somehow lesser existence than one entrenched in the mundane and trivial. If my mind could always be concerned with exactly that, my mind, then all blotches and taints could merely float away.
As dreams need some basis in reality (for what else could they be modelled on?) they are therefore an extention of our experiences, and as a result broaden out minds. Surely a healthy thing.
In creating dreams we can avoid disappointment and make everything as we would wish, so even if the reality fails to enrapture, lives can still be enriched. Half the fun in planning and plotting is the fantastical imaginings of what is to come. The images conjured by this process are often enough to satisfy, even if they are never carried out, or end up turning out differently. I remember my previous anticipation and the settings I then created in this anticipation often more vividly than the event itself. And that is the magic of it.
My 18th could be crap, but this would not matter as I currently have a fantasy of it being a beautiful evening. And at the moment that is lovely and, frankly, sufficient.
Speaking of harsh reality, I must check to see if there is spinach in my teeth (apologies for the cliche, but who can help what they have for tea if they don't wish to cook?). Until next time, when deepness and profundity will do it's best to be avoided. What a pretentious loon.