Tomorrow’s Sleeper Ave. story is a change of pace from the more serious ones I’ve been posting lately.
When I was a kid, I had a recurring dream that I could fly. There were many variations, but in all of them I ended up mastering the art of soaring through the sky. One dream in particular was more real than any of the others. It was so intense that I honestly believed that I had learned the secret of flying for several hours after I woke up. As the day wore on, and it slowly dawned on me that I really couldn’t fly, I was crushed. I’ve never really gotten over the disappointment.
I remember that dream, almost six decades later, so vividly that I can still close my eyes and feel my toes leaving the ground as I launch myself into the air.
Why is it that as we age, our dreams are never so radiant, so detailed, so stirring as they were when we were young? It is that our brains wither, our synapses slow, our vision dims? Are our imaginations, once so free and unrestrained, irretrievably dulled by the inevitable intrusion of reality, by the unstoppable assault of time? When so many other things fade, why can’t our dreams, at least, be as vibrant as once they were? Is that too much to ask?
Well, if I can’t have that, at least I can try to approximate the feeling with drawings and text. They’re admittedly poor substitutes for the real thing, but they’re the tools I have to work with.
Tune in tomorrow.