In my dreams I lazed away on a grassy bank, bursting with verdure. The sun had been shining since long before I'd arrived and I bathed in its warmth. Beside me a stream glided downwards, over ridges and stones, before finally emptying itself in a deep pond, lilies silently sliding across its surface. All around trees hung low over the pond, having just come into bloom. Their flowers filtered the sunlight which danced merrily upon the water, sending colours everywhere; red, yellow, pink and blue. A single petal fell away from its branch and drifted slowly down on the breeze. It came to rest on the pond and sent perfect ripples all around it, shooting circular creases all the way to the bank. Surrounded by all this beauty and lush I reclined with my hands behind my head and gazed up at the sky, completely at peace.
In my dreams I ran across great empty meadows and moors. The wind rushed through my hair and before long I found myself running up the incline of a hill. I scrambled onwards, pulling myself forwards with my hands as much as running with my feet. And yet still faster and faster I went, desperately climbing until I reached the summit, and then I continued to ascend. I thrust my leg into the empty air in front of me and felt it turn solid beneath my foot. Thus I climbed upwards still, pulling myself along at first, but finding more and more that I had no need of my arms and legs to keep moving. I ascended into the bright blue until finally I pierced the clouds. There I stopped and marvelled at what I saw. Stretching out into infinity was a great carpet of clouds, all stained orange and red by the rays of the dying sun. They billowed up into mighty towers and fell away again, swirling about on the sky's floor. I'd come at last to the glorious kingdom of clouds.
And in my life I've seen a thousand, thousand faces, each with their own thoughts, hopes and dreams. And yet how many of them know of the glory of the skies, or the peace of nature, or the treachery of the seas? How many of them look beyond the mediocrity of their own mundane lives into the wonder of their souls? Not many, I'll wager.
The picture is The Elephant Celebes (1921) by the great master Max Ernst