It's about midnight. I've recently returned home from work, had a late supper, and am winding down from the hectic pace of whatever it is that I do for a living. All the world is asleep around me, embracing the dream-state and its promises of reward, adventure and excitement. Sometimes I wonder what they all dream about, these people that surround me. Does my neighbor dream of the perfect lawn, manicured at right angles, with the sidewalk edged so crisply you could give yourself a papercut? Does the young man down the street dream of 75-inch subwoofers in his souped-up '87 Honda Accord?
And what of my family? Do my sons dream they are heroes in a Star Wars epic? Or that they ride bicycles through the night sky with E.T.? Does my wife, as she sleeps next to the empty spot that now calls me, have coffee with old friends on a shaded deck outside a perfectly-ordered home? Do the dogs dream of chasing rabbits, or of lying about the house all day while being hand-fed choice cuts of sirloin and a few cats?
What will I dream tonight?
Within the safe, secure confines of the recesses of my mind, hidden away from the people who expect stoicism and courage and stability, I allow myself to dream. Some are as simple as a day at the beach. Others are complicated, irrational, impossible, sometimes even frightening in their disjointed unreality. But they are mine, and I embrace them with desparate fervor.
In my secret dreams, I allow myself to have secret dreams.