In some of my worst nightmares, I am alone. Fear of living consumes me and I become a fat old hermit who swats at dreams like flies. Instead of reaching for my goals the worst of nightmares becomes remaining, staying. I become nothing more than who I am today.
In some of my best dreams there are ten of me. I climb the stairs to my flat in Italy where my three green-eyed children and my Doctor wait. I study, I sleep, I start dreams. In the summer we travel. Safari through the Garden of Eden—Kenya, tour castles throughout Europe, snorkel off Australia, trace ancestors in Ireland, Eskimo kiss in Alaska, dream of America in Boston… I will write, travel and never stop studying. In my best dreams I never stop evolving in to the vision of me.
I wrote that little bit, which has haunted me daily, nearly 10 years ago. Dreaming is not my only nemesis. I am a planner. When I dream I plan. Minute details plague the path from point A to point B and on and on to point Z. I am nothing like the person who wrote that little bit 10 years ago. My life has not turned out to be the dream I dreamed then. It is richer, more involved, and gritty.