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Dreams are not enough.

They reside deep within out unconscious mind and often, they turn out to be nothing more than aerial flights of fantasy.  A hallucination.  A momentary and diseased, wishful thinking.  A reimagined life, so vivid, that we regretfully decline its possibility.  We believe that it is not for us.  We are not worthy of greatness.

Our dreams are very important, but they are immaterial, and too easy to abandon.  They often disguise themselves as mere wishes.  Turn out to be nothing more than a collection pretty shiny lights or a tantalizing sucky-sweet that quickly dissolves itself into a tasteless afterthought.

I wish I was fit.  I wish I had more money.  I wish I was famous.  I wish I was free.  I wish I didn’t eat that greasy burrito at midnight, because my sphincter will soon be exhausted from all the purging.

I wish, I wish, I wish…

You get the idea.

Perhaps our dreams need a crime fighting partner.  Perhaps dreams need a sidekick to make sure things actually materialize.  Perhaps our dreams need the assistance of possibilities.

Possibilities.

A chance. 

A promise.

A risk but an opportunity.

Now more than ever, we need a world of possibilities.  We need it more than our dreams.

I want to publish a book. 

Several, actually. 

I want strangers to read them and be moved, or pee themselves with laughter.  I want to share what I see, think, and feel.  I want to contribute my unique fingerprint to the vast human library of thought and experience.  I want to connect with my readers, and engage them in authentic human dialogue.  I regret that I have been silent for far too long.

I want to make my mark. 

Publishing a book is a dream, but if you are here, reading this, you stumbled into something more infinitely important.  You have found my world of possibilities.

This is my 73rd entry into that possibility. 

I hustle every morning to come up with something that makes sense.  Something that means something, and might in some small way resonate with someone.  I often ask myself who will actually read this?  Will it even make sense to them?  What will they think of me?  Will they misunderstand my intention?  Why don’t I just write a book and forget all this.

I write these posts every day, to keep my dream alive. 

I am convinced that if I put my thoughts on paper, or rather, let them find their existence in my keystrokes, than perhaps one day, one day soon, I will be able to create a long series of these entries, and bind them together in a book.

I don’t know what dreams lay close to your heart, but I know that you have them. 

Connect your dreams to the world of possibility.  Don’t worry what will be.  Focus on what is and what you can accomplish at this very moment.

We are human beings. 

We were always meant to be

Doing is the disease we discovered in the Garden of Measurement.

Publishing a book will not make me a writer.  Writing every day makes me a writer.  Publishing a book is only one possibility of expression.

If you are an artist, be an artist.  Be an artist every day.  Do something.  Make mistakes.  Rant and rave.  Quit.  Then change your soiled underwear, and begin again.  Focus on what is possible.  Work on what you can.  Let the infinite and abundant universe whisper to you the what and the why you are here.  Share with us what only you can imagine.

Chris Cornell is not only a handsome musical genius, but the man speaks to my very soul.

I am not the rolling wheels.  I am the highway.

I am not the carpet ride.  I am the sky.

I am not the blowing wind.  I am the lightning.

I am not the autumn moon.  I am the sky.

Stop and think about that for a moment?  Don’t rush through it.  The shit your dog made, will get picked up.  Stay with me for a few more seconds.

You are the sky.  The thunder and the lightning.

I am not the sum-total of my many mistakes.  I am a life worth living.

A dreamer.

A dreamer who exists in a world of possibilities.