To write or not to write. That’s the question. To write. To dream. Isn’t it the same? We write what we dream and we dream what we write.
As my dear friend Joni would suggest, I should choose not to write in order to get some writing done. Should I dream instead?
As my obsession to write the short stories I would be publishing this year goes, I can’t write anything that I could consider close to good. A perfectionist. That’s what I am and that’s probably not help at all.
Last night I had a dream, a strange one coming from my uncounscious. I saw myself writing and I could hear what I was writing. It sounded like poetry, even though I don’t write poetry or haven’t written poetry so far. The dream was vivid, the words were flowing naturally and the sound of the rhymes were as music filling the room with magical words to later on be stamped on paper.
“I have to remember this,” I thought in dreams. “I have to remember this. I have to write this.” And I kept on repeating the words I had heard in the dream.
“Where’s my notebook? Oh, too far. I should bring it here and place it next to me every night when coming to bed.”
I was having those thoughts in parallel with seeing myself writing and listening to my own thoughts in the dream. I could see myself, clearly and vividly.
“I need my notebook. I need to write this.”
My body didn’t respond to my command. It kept on lying, motionless, ignoring any order coming from my mind.
Was that a dream or was it a scene on a parallel world? A world where I am an inspired an creative author. Was my soul visiting that world to show me what I can do, to let me hear what I can create? Was my soul looking at me from the distance, seeing my motionless body from above?
I opened my eyes suddenly. Turning my head to the window I can see the roof across the back yard was all white, covered in snow.
“When did it snow?”
I couldn’t recall. Probably it had been snowing all night long.