Whatever some people might say, it seems to me that a world in which I can fly, bend space and time, and meet with people who have been dead for years, deserves more consideration than it gets. If I weigh the waking world on one side of the scale and the dream world on the other, which one is more substantial? Doesn’t a world of endless possibilities seem more likely to contain the whole of our lives than the fraction of the world that we call real?

A dream is not what it seems. A dream cannot be bottled and sold. You cannot stake out the boundaries of a dream. You cannot record its title in your name. No photos can be taken of the dream world. And yet it is real.

If this is a dream, I hope I remember it.

Sometimes I have trouble telling my dreams from reality. The farther I travel from some experience, the more unsure I am that it actually happened. Just like a dream, the closer I am to it, the more sure I am that it's real.

Is that like a dream journal? You ask.He nods. But these things really happen. He explains.Dreams really happen. You say.

The reflection on the surface of the water is often mistaken for the mysteries that lie beneath. Likewise, the reflection of the moon is mistaken for its own light. In the quest for wisdom, each person must emerge from the illusions of the world and begin the journey towards the sacred mountain.

Things are often not what they seem. And then, sometimes they are. The trick is to learn what is real.

The painter knew the mirror lied. And the canvas told the truth.

Life isn’t really linear. Although it’s generally perceived that way. The stories we tell are woven like snakes around a divining rod. A center of time containing all that’s ever been told and heard. Remembered and forgotten. Lost and found. Our pasts, presents and futures are unwound, stretched flat, cut into pieces and held up with human arms.