Dreamers vs. Realists

There is a battle within me that rages:
The realist, the dreamer,
Who shall stand victorious?

I am the creative sort; my brain functions on such a subjective level that every aspect of life both fascinates yet also offends me. I take such offense to Life that I unleash my feelings on inanimate objects to expunge my creativity. Pen to paper, I write my dreams dipped in glittery gold, I whisper ocean sounds, and breathe fresh brine as I write, and my eyes trace the surface of every element, dipping and exploring with a hunger untamed.

The dreamer in me feeds on the ordinary, bathes in the sheer ridiculousness of simplicity, and laughs at the montonomity of societal outlooks. A generic scene with jumbled lighting and an iconoclast cast feeds my creative soul with ambrosia. A true dramatic a heart, I see these scenes as a casting call for a theatric play. Cue the lights, ready my actors, I am the playwright who demands her Vente hot chocolate, skim milk, no whip! A scene brushed with trickling decay and engineered with clogging cement transforms under my crazed eyes. A gentle breeze puffs from my lips as I hungrily watch as my dreams unfold. A damp, dewy mists clings to my thighs as I cut through the platform cawing, roaring, I provide the scene with a foundation that lingers as it upholds to its imperfections. A man dressed in monochrome is a challenger, yes, for he was fallen- a man fallen is not unsaveable yet his rebirth will shake the earth with its magnitude. A twirl of laughter, a sprinkle of imagination and we have a devastatingly handsome pirate sworn to protect the unruly seas with a brooding wench at his side.

A dreamer never truly stops dreaming so ideas blend, shape interchangeably. Days stretch to years yet minutes fade rapidly into nanoseconds. A great idea!– they will claim- but how does the idea come to mind? Does the idea spring from another idea? Where do ideas go- a box labeled “my ideas”? Or do ideas mysteriously creep from your subconscious like Freddy Krueger?

Oh dear, I am babbling… Yet isn’t the job- the divine right- of a dreamer to mull and ponder the interlockings of their own self-imposed oddities?

But while there are dreamers, there are the realists who take a magical eraser from their shirt pockets and rub with a viciousness at the dreamer’s bubble of joy. This realist in me, thrives at my dreamer’s devastation…

A realist is necessary for our society yet they truly never allow themselves to understand the complex simplicity of a dreamer. But can we blame them?

A realist will wake in the morning- knowing with damned certainty the sky is blue, the grass should be green, and the sea shells at the sea shore are sold by Sally or Susan or god-forbid-Selma.

Realism is a freedom of sorts. There are no illusions to your destiny:

You will live and you will die.
You may find love and you may never do.
You may reach your dreams but you can also fall short.
You may meet Beyoncé, but you only meet Sasha Fierce.

The list goes on and on…

The realization of your shortcomings and your mediocre accomplishments has a tendency to numb. A sharp needle oozing with a transparent solvent that steals your childlike wonder and replaces it with an adult’s crushing idealism- may the two never meet!

Short and to the point, a realist waters down the truth yet also narrows down the elementary hypocrisy. A realist is the woman or man who tells us the hard facts-we put our lives in their unshakeable hands but when it comes to love, we steer away from their honesty. 50% percent of marriages fail, they will claim, yet we box our ears and sing “la, la, la” to drown them out.

Will their words ever be taken seriously or will our freedom of life and depravity shut us away from the demanding, unrealistic truth?

See the complexity of my words?

Daily, I struggle with the polar opposite ideologies. I mock those who are solely dreamers and I solely mock the rigid soldiers  of realism. I saddle both worlds yet I am also lucky. I see the sheer, brilliant beauty of the world yet I can also acknowledge the mind-shattering, believable lies. My pen points down as I blend the horrors and beauty of our world onto paper and my words navigate the naive and the jaded!

With me–they can find middle ground.

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