Dreaming with My Eyes Wide Open
They say dreams are born in the quiet hours of sleep, beneath blankets of starlight and borrowed moons.
Perhaps they are.
But I have always loved the dreams that arrive in daylight, their pockets full of horizons, their hands stained with possibility.
The ones that perch on windowsills at dawn, whispering through the cracks of ordinary mornings, turning the mundane into something worth believing in.
A wish is a bird content to circle the sky.
A dream is the wind beneath its wings.
It does not ask to be admired from afar. It asks to be followed.
Across uncertain roads. Through seasons of doubt. Toward destinations that exist first in the heart before they ever appear on a map.
And so I carry mine like a lantern against the dark, cupping its fragile light between hopeful hands.
Not because I know where it will lead, but because some callings are meant to be trusted before they are understood.
Perhaps that is the truest kind of dreaming.
Not the kind that visits in sleep and fades with the morning tide,
but the kind that lingers in your chest like a compass, pulling you toward distant shores, until one day you realize
the dream was never a place you were trying to reach.
It was a river,
teaching you how to become.
