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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Daily Cascade
Since my old blog "Everyday Canvas "  became overfilled, here's a new one. This new blog item will continue answering prompts, the same as the old one.
Cool water cascading to low ground
To spread good will and hope all around.
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Prompt:
"We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories. Some take us forward, they're called dreams."
Jeremy Irons
In what ways and how do you think memories and dreams are related?
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I'm not so sure about dreams taking us forward, unless one substitutes the word "dreams" for wishes. From where I stand, dreams are what our minds conjure up as we sleep.
In fact, memories and dreams are intimately tied together. They are tied with the same threads spun by our minds, although they serve different purposes and have different rules.
I can't talk for everyone's mind, but from where I stand, I think, my mind constantly gathers experiences. Some of those experiences I may not consciously notice, but some feelings stick to me and sometimes drift to the edges of my mind. Those are the ones I minimize or don't face too sincerely. Then, in my sleep they pop up in some weird form, attaching fragments of this and that in strange yet vivid ways, and they combine and mix memories to make a new, fleeting experience.
Also, I wonder if dreams can shape memories. Only because some of my dreams are so real! So real that they feel as if they are truer than what happens in my waking hours. How does something imagined plus something lived add up and come out with such clarity, and sometimes weirdness too, is beyond me. Just maybe, such a dream has tapped into something deeply emotional.
So, I ask myself, "Is my mind always searching for a story, so it makes up all this?" Yet, it isn't the story itself, is it! There has to be a deeper link.
That link has to be something that makes me process myself. Memory is identity building the self. Yet, dreams can be an exploration; an exploration of what I haven't said out loud or haven't faced squarely on my own. Either way, they are both imperfect and shapeshifting.
Still, the enigma isn't solved for me. This is because when I take another look at my dreams, I wonder how my mind knew my young, healthy cousin was suddenly dying at the other end of the world, at the same exact time that she died. At that exact time, she came to me in a dream and said goodbye and said that she had to go away. This wasn't the only occasion. There were other similar dreams, too, that shook me to the core, and I have no explanation for any one of them.
The only thing I can assume is that we are bound to one another with more ties than we know about. Those ties can be physical, emotional, or in some kind of a wave form, which some spiritual paths insist on their existence. Or maybe something even more complex.
Who knows? Certainly not my limited brain and mind.
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