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 The imagination of a creative child is at times
as real, to a child, as reality itself. To know so dearly of a world, that
may not have existed in authenticity, where the peerless beauty and
perfection surpassed anything now known to my self, is often difficult for me
to understand. Memories that are routed so deep inside me; memories that are
too unclouded, too vivid and too untouched by the greedy hands of the adult
world, that it seems that such a place must have existed in more than the
visionary world of a young girl.
My field of lost dreams will always be remembered, to me, as the
most perfect and wonderful area of this world; a secluded mystery that could
only be seen through the eyes of little children, who desired nothing but to
enjoy the simple pleasures of life. I have lost this now, my secret realm
that was unseen through the eyes of others, now that my own eyes have
closed, and are blind to abstract thought and my once vivid imagination.
"Past the clock tower, second to the right, and straight on 'till morning,"
was this all a dream of mine? Why then, I ask, would this sequestered
sanctuary seem so sincere? There was once a place, a place that no longer
exists, where children could play so freely that you could almost see the
wings on their backs begin to form. A place where the sun shone so bright,
its gold-crimson light shinning over fields of swimming green reeds, that not
a tree or flower could escape its radiant glow. A place that I had the
pleasure of visiting a few times in my childhood, but to which I have never
returned, nor ever will, since my adolescent years.
There lay a small stream that came through my domain, my secret
world, where ancient willow trees brushed the floor, and sun light peered
through these giants. The water was so clear and so pure that my reflection,
as well as the trees that hovered above, would seem like a completely
different world that lived its upside-down ways in the secrecy of the waters.
The sound of the water, the rippling of the tranquil current caressing the
smooth stones that lay in the stream, would beckon me to come and lay my feet
in the cool, lucid pool. Its chilling touch enveloped my toes, water droplets
joyfully dancing about my feet, would often annul any melancholy thought that
was, at the moment, present in my mind.
I loved to go to this place, my fantasy world, where I, along with
my friends, could escape the limited reality of our urban dwelling lives. In
this land -- this world within a world, where fairies flew about with flowers
in their hair, where little elves danced within the mythical stone circles,
and where Sorceresses and Warlocks would cast their magical spells beneath
the open sky -- I would play.
High above, surrounded by the luminescence of the setting sun, I
would freely sail through the skies; my winged arms spread across the eternal
heavens, and I, without any restrictions, would confidently splash through
the clouds and then let my body freely fall down again until I was inches
above the ground. I would soar the grassy green fields, with music in my
ears -- the whistling of the reeds in the calm wind, the songs of a solitary
bird that sang of a lost love, the gentle sways of the willow's arms sweeping
the watery floor -- and absorb every beautiful moment and place it deep
within the fathoms of my heart.
The human mind works in mysterious ways. A dream, which could be
called by any other name and still sound as sweet, can be thought of in many
different ways- possibly our secret desires, perhaps a way that our
subconscious forewarns us of the future. Or maybe our dreams are simply
abstract thoughts and the result of our over active imaginations. Whatever
they may be -- dreams, visions, or fantasies -- they have the ability to
leave a generally permanent impact on our lives. This world that I speak
of, this truly majestic place, remains incredibly intelligible in my
thoughts, if it was indeed just a childhood dream, why then would is seem so
genuine?
I end this essay in the same way I begin, with questions, whose
answers are purely opinions and can only be sought through the completely
individualized thoughts of separate people. To some, a dream is just a dream,
when to others, a dream is doorway to an entirely different state of
consciousness. For me, my dreams are a connection to my past, to lost
thoughts and memories long forgotten. This world that I have created, my
secret realm in which I live my childhood for an eternity, will forever exist
in my mind, and heart.
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