Dreams or Musings?

I doubt that the imagination can be suppressed. If you truly eradicated it in a child, he would grow up to be an eggplant. ~Ursula K. Le Guin

At what point does someone's musing, someone's daydream cross the imaginary line of pondering possibilities become a dream, a fantasy, an unfulfilled longing of the heart which, if unfulfilled, will leave a history of regrets? For as long as I can remember, I have been a dreamer, a creator of fantasy in which I, or a reasonable facsimile of myself, is the primary character, the lead actor in the story, the author of almost possible realities being played out in my mind's eye. I frequently embark upon explorations of my imagination where life as I live it bears little resemblance to the life I imagine I want to live. I discover scenarios in my imagination which, I begin to believe, if not visited will result in a life that is unfulfilled, unrealized, incomplete.

For as long as I can remember, my dreams have been laced with escapism, thoughts of chucking it all away and starting anew, I have been haunted by dreams of picking up and just moving. At one point, I wanted to be an adventure writer then a photographer then both, to take pictures and write the story. Some of my dream destinations were to live a pauper's life in Moab where I could be immersed in a surrealistic landscape, to settle in the Arizona desert and exploring the nothingness of the desert, to hunt and fish in upper Wisconsin the year round in solitude. Today, I am glad none of those dreams became my reality for I am very happy with the life I have lived, the life I am living.

I often wonder about why I have these reoccurring fantasies each wearing it's own mask while beneath they are all the same. Does the same base fantasy repeat because hummingbirds whisper variations of the dream line into my ears while I sleep? I often wonder if ever really want them to come true, if I really want to step into the world created solely in my dreams, if I want to tangiblize that which, in my dreams, is a state of perfection though I know the perfection would be gone the instant it became my reality. Do I really want to realize those musing which I sometimes call dreams? Do I have these dream musings because I am drawn to the fantasy of escapism? Am I drawn to these visions because I want to run away or because my mind likes to imagine new and impossible lives for itself?

When I dream, I birth a new reality, a reality I enjoy growing, growing until I find a doorway which I can pass through and believe the created reality can become my real reality. This, for my mind, is play. My mind likes to play. The very act of the vivid imaginations I create is my mind exercising its ability to amuse itself. They are pushups strengthening my ability to dream more fantastic dreams the next time around. The more I create scenarios in which the dreams could become reality the more I must figure out ways I must adapt. This, for me, is the ultimate playground, a playground for a mind that loves to tussle with what-if scenarios, loves to fantasize, loves to frolic in the fertile soil of my imagination.