Ask someone if they are a dreamer, and in all likelihood they will say yes.
Barring minor discrepancies such as age or mental state most would like to think of themselves as having just the tiniest bit of magic left within them; a little part that still believes in possibilities and the unexplainable. We have no ownership over this designation, and it is the most loaded of the empty questions because it demands neither proof or explanation. Are you a dreamer? Yes?
Does that mean that you have dreams?
Or that you are lost or found with your head perpetually in the clouds.
Or does it mean you are different. That the world has opened itself up to you, stretched out it’s hand and said here, really look at me.
Has it given you something the rest of us are not privy to?
Blinded by consumption and worry and our own lives in the hopes of being extraordinary we hold off, we make sure that there are certain memories fuelled by a dream; glossed over and made into things they are not.
People in fact will concoct entire portions of their lives, repeating them over and over again until they become fact in memory, bringing as much joy upon recollection as a real memory would.
Are the dreamers then the best liars?
The jilted lover who grows to hate what she once loved, twisting it so that her heartbreak becomes her choice rather than a decision made by somebody else.
I meant to do that.
The aspiring artist who calls himself so even though nobody else has.
I’ll see you when I’m famous.
We dream but only let them out once they are long gone, we wish but we do not utter, because our greatest fear is to be made a fool. I had a dream, not I have, because those are still a secret.