If you want your dreams to come true, don't oversleep.
Your real duty is to save your dream.
I like the stars. It's the illusion of permanence, I think. I mean, they're always
flaring up and caving in and going out. But, from here, I can pretend. . . I can pretend that
things last. I can pretend that lives last longer than moments. Gods come and Gods go. Mortals
flicker and flash and fade. Worlds don't last; and stars and galaxies are transient, fleeting
things that twinkle like fireflies and vanish into cold and dust. But I can pretend.
You call me a dreamer, but sometimes dreams come true.
Imagination is the one weapon in the war against reality.
You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus.
I believe in the imagination. What I cannot see is infinitely more important than what I
can see.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by
night. In their grey visions they obtain glimpses of eternity. . .
I like nonsense; it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living,
it's looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables
you to laugh at life's realities.
I like the dreams of the future better than the history of the past.
The thing you have to be prepared for is that other people don't always dream your dream.
If I had never met him I would have dreamed him into being.
People don't fall in love with what's right in front of them. People want the dream -
what they can't have - the more unattainable, the more attractive.
I often had a dream about this. In my dream, I saw a beautiful blond girl moving through
a crowd of other teenagers. She is admired by both boys and girls, including me. But I am
watching through a window. I am not angry at the girl. I don't even envy her. But I am apart
and helpless. I want to cry out because she is something I can never be.
When the last days were upon me, and the ugly trifles of existence began to drive me to madness
like the small drops of water that torturers let fall ceaselessly upon one spot of their victim's
body, I loved the irradiate refuge of sleep. In my dreams, I found little of the beauty I had so
vainly sought in life.
We get all the bad dreams. We got to leave some for somebody else.
At night, I no longer dreamed, nor did I let my imagination work during the day. The once
vibrant escapes of watching myself fly through the clouds in bright blue costumes were now a thing
of the past. When I fell asleep my soul became consumed in a black void. I no longer awoke in
the mornings refreshed; I was tired and told myself that I had one day less to live in this world.
I shuffled through my chores, dreading every moment of every day. With no dreams, I found that
words like hope and faith were only letters randomnly put together into something
meaningless - words only for fairy tales.
You need to share your dreams, advertise them. That's how you make them happen.
Encountering earlier experiences with the same casual relations to past and future which
our experiences in waking life have - but which, nevertheless, were only relations in a dream.
See, there's thinking about him, right? Which is what I do. All the time. It's like an
obsession. It keeps me going. Like I need that to get through the day because it's an obsession.
And if you make it real - it's not the same. It's not yours anymore. So I don't know what to do
because maybe if I ruin it tonight, maybe I'd be better off just having the fantasy. . .
Far away, there in the sunshine, are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I
can look up and see their beauty.
The most pitiful among men is he who turns his dreams into silver and gold.
Living her own self in her own words and hating the sweat of the house they keep when they
finally lie, each in separate dreams.
Your dream moves summers inside my mind.
What are you doing? Leave me alone! Can't you see I'm dreaming? In a dream, you are
never eighty.
In dreams, the same bad dreams go on.
Awake, I memorized dreams. Dreams came into the ring like third string fighters, each one
a bad bet who might win because there was no other.
I had a dream once, perhaps it was a dream, that the crab was my ignorance of God. But
who am I to believe in dreams?
It is the witch's life, climbing the primordial climb, a dream within a dream.
Dreaming, dreaming, your body a boat, rocked by your life and my death.
Yet, I'd risk my life on that dilly dally buttercup called dreams.
The bed itself is an operating table where my dreams slice me into pieces.
Oh well, it doesn't belong to me. If a cigar can be a cigar, then a dream can be a dream.
Dreams of motion circle the Persian rug in a room you were in. On the beach, the sadness
of gramophones deepens the ocean's folding and falling. It is yesterday. It is still yesterday.
The man, asleep in the heavy arms of a chair, does not see us out in the freezing air of
the dream he is having.
Yesterday is just a dream I can't remember.
It's lovely to know the world can't interfere with the inside of your head.
If we let the dream die, what was the point of waking up?
Don't dream a dream, live a dream and let reality sleep.
You and her that's what you want. You and me. . . that's what I dream.
