The Dream Call

When Your Dream Calls, How Will You Respond?

They called him Lonely Ludix, others called him the non-conformist. Born gifted, like every other child, he just couldn’t reach out to his talent, because it needed more training than any known master could provide. There was no other way to it, so he followed the narrow path, and paid a painful price.

Many dark nights he burnt charcoal and bled ink, until one fateful night when the Dream Maker decided to let him have it. Then the dreams began to appear. The first dream struck like lightning. It was a kaleidoscope of actions, explorations and mishaps, encounters with the great and small, world’s wonders and tours, plush colors. He woke up.

He quickly began to work on the dream. Working tools he could not find. Not even the light room to work, much less the new machine, called the PC. There was no money. He found himself in a dark corner, waiting anxiously.

He watched twelve full moons pass. The clouds began to gather. Then the dreams returned, like a rainstorm, pouring out exclusive stuffs, both with hard and soft backs. One had a beautiful catch, like Mona Lisa’s subtle smile. He twitched over and over, and woke up.

Not satisfied with his act, he began to work like never before. After much tilling, his visions slightly improved. They began to take form like the letters in a Phoenician alphabet. Blur still, they needed more tuning.

The next avian migration had just begun. The Dream Maker now satisfied, sent his Goal Smith who appeared, carrying along with him an amusing kit. It had the STUFF OF LEGENDS. He handed it to him.

In some distant arcade, a clock tower called out five times and then stopped. He woke up.

He strained so hard, despite his naysayer’s advice to do something else. But not very long his visions became clearer, like alphabets combining to form words. Then something happened. He saw his dream, but it stood all by itself, hanging in the air.

There it was, staring at him. He knew it would one day come to this. That moment of doubt he prayed never to return. And now his very belief will be questioned once more. Can he take it this time?

All of a sudden, the world began to fade. He felt his own emotions- that edgy feeling of risk and uncertainty. He saw the boundary line between his world and the unknown. Give up, he thought, all these Brownian motion emotions. It was worse than even desperation.

But just before he did, a gentle voice barely whispered, take it! Then he stepped across the line, beyond safety and certainty. His heart flew. He gathered his feelings, razor sharp. And then he took it.

The rest became history. He had done the incredible. Like a photograph, there he was, standing in the center of time- gazing into space. Some called it craze, others called it excitement, while some called it the ultimate adrenalin rush. The crowd gushed at him. It was a stroke of frenzy. He was lifted to the skies.

There were no predicaments, and there were no problems.  After all, who cares? It was him, himself, and his spirit, flying into his story [history?] books.

And the only thing he remembered thinking was, did anybody really say they were looking for a hero?

Many times our dreams keep calling on us.

Some simply ignore this call. No matter how loud the sound, how high the pitch of this dream call, they will never hear it, let alone respond to it. They have set their sights on the travails of their daily lives on this groaning planet. They have accepted their fate before their journey ever began. To these folks, there is no such thing as a dream world. Their eyes have been stung by the light beams casted by their own accepted realities. Instead of speaking their mind, they realize they have no minds at all. Like we mortals are shut from a spiritual reality, so are these humbled souls shut from a world of dreams. These are those born in the heart of conflicts- caused by man’s guns and nature’s quakes.

They have taken the machinated route. Like robots, every word and action becomes an instruction. They seem to have no choice. No, the blustering winds have taken and casted their choices into the abyss. When they open their mouth, it becomes frozen – in shock or in fear, like a Polaroid picture. When they utter any word, it is a prompt to flee from conflict, like a computer’s response to the programmer’s query. Their world has become a digital life, a world of one and zero, of ‘yes and no, or if.’ It is a world of ‘run or die.’ To these wimps, no matter what happens, ‘What will be will be.’ They have been whipped with the pains and travails of this world and now they have become whispering whimpers. They talk but do not speak. When they try to speak, who will listen?

Some will hear their dream call and ignore it. When a dream call is heard and ignored, it will call back again until it is finally rejected. At this rejected point, time becomes a drag, taking the reverse path. Like mitosis, time divides within itself, first expanding arithmetically, naturally, geometrically, and then exponentially. In this vast expanse of expanding time, nothing much is accomplished. Every route becomes routine, and nothing sounds interesting from within. Great songs becomes clatter and clang. These people may have contact with a billion fellows, but they have lost contact with their inner souls.

A boring life takes over. Instead of looking forward, they now look backwards, usually over their shoulders, to peep at their surroundings. They look to admire their beautiful pasts and fear to see the growing present or future- whether it is glorious or gloomy. They look across their shoulders to see how well they fare compared to the rich and famous Jones’ and Joneses’. They set their gaze ablaze, not because they like what they see, but because they are afraid to look inside and listen to their dream call-now-turned-wail. They have buried their dreams and their souls are now mourning. What a loss!

As they grow older, they slowly become strangers to themselves, no longer trusting their judgement. They find themselves eating the opinions of others. When they chew apple, they want to know if it tastes like apple. When they dress, they seek others to assure them. Things become beautiful only when others say it is beautiful – a beauty measured by likes, comments, and shares. Laidem Aicos has become their barometer for measuring their fast changing tastes and surroundings, whether far or near. Little by little, they traverse from the real to the surreal.

 After a while, they begin to lose their personhood, becoming like human sheets without souls. When you look at them, they look perfectly normal. They don’t look funny. However, if you look closer, you will notice something very funny – and the funny thing is this – they have slowly but successfully transformed into histrionic Thespians, the new major stars of a micro league. Like stars, they love to walk on the red carpets of every occasion, taking pictures and walking across the halls devoid of true fame – a wall of shame, perhaps. They have now become the very characters that some of the greatest fictional writers once struggled many, many years ago to try to create – for our reading pleasure. Did somebody say stereotype?

 

Then there are those who when their dream calls, it is as though they have been awakened from a dream. When they wake up, they find themselves living in two different worlds – an intermingling between a dream world and a real world. In the passage of time, this dream world becomes more real, while their fading reality becomes surreal, like the distant flowers and mountains we see behind the portraits of the greatest Renaissance Masters’ paintings.

Their response becomes one of a new journey. They traverse not in space but also in time, shrinking both. A day departs like a snap. The weeks pass by as though they were just a couple of minutes. A month becomes like an hour; a year like a day, while the years pass by like weeks until the dream is finally accomplished. Yet along this path of the dream lays hidden treasures – the boon of vision, insight and wisdom.

 Along this course lies the discovery of self as one’s point of origin. At this point of origin is where they become originals – not because they do all things anew, but because old things spring out from them in new forms. Whether it is the latest invention, the newest most successful enterprise, a scientific discovery, a story told afresh, or a new method of presentation, their works allow us to see things with newness of eyes.

At this point, their dreams have become their beasts – their horses. And ride they will on these horses, into the sunset of time. They have become Dream Riders. And nothing, not even time, nor space, nor the strike of old age can stop these galloping horses. Not even death, save the Dream Maker Himself.

When your dream calls, how will you respond?

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