Dreams of Daily Star-dom

I had all but forgotten about dreaming.

For those of you looking to your Daily Stars, this past night you may have noticed an empty sky clouded in this reporter’s silence. Snuggled up warm in my bear, I drifted off to the soft sound of puppy snores… and found myself in a familiar, but distant place.

In my youth, I deemed this place Slumberland, but then again, I have always been partial towards naming my original scripts with a catchy portmanteau.

Reflecting now on my college admissions essay to Drexel University’s Film & Video program entitled “Silver-Screen Dreams” I can’t help but notice the correlation between the dreams we dream at night and the dreams we aspire to live by day.

Not so much in the content of the dreams themselves, mind you. Many artists claim that a particular inspiration came to them in a dream– while I imagine that is true, in a way– they tell it much like they were watching it as a film in their sleep, and transcribing it to you by day.

Naturally, an inspiration we are deeply immersed in, will slip its way into our subconscious in our slumber. But not in an instantly recognizable literal sense. And crossing this border the other way around, is something else entirely.

They royal “they” tells you that you do not dream in color.
I know this to be a lie.
I can remember a neon pink octopus. Smooth, shiny, almost cartoonish for there wasn’t much texture to it.
I can remember a wizard, a castle tower, a magic book, a cat that was a shark.
Underwater, but also not. Swimming through water and swimming through air feel very much the same– and I can do both, as naturally as I breath in either.
I can relate mixed memories to you now from this dream, a particularly memorable dream I dreampt many nights ago.
But when I woke from that dream, many afternoons ago, I could remember the rhyme, but none of the reason. Though I did recall it was quite intriguing. A smash hit, a million dollar idea, I had to tell the world. But when facebook asked “What’s on your mind?” and I put fingers to keys… err… pink octopus?
I cannot tell you anything about the dream I dreampt last night. Though I do recall it was very vivid, and I spent much of my morning reflecting on it… err… coffee?
I don’t even drink coffee.
But at a distance, I can describe for you images of that old dream, like it was yesterday. Mayhaps, a tiny bit distorted by this reporter’s recent adventures with Dirk Gently’s Hollistic Detective Agency… but as we speak, I am just now beginning to piece together elements of a plot long forgotten by the journey to the waking world.

When I made the journey back this afternoon, I was left with very little in memory. But as the drive to dream drags me back to slumberland through most mornings, the drive to dream pulls me ever onward now, reflected in my waking world creations.

I suppose I could say the inspiration for this here post came to me in a dream. But that would be so cliché.

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Articulators Anonymous

The great heroes of human history, names and deeds forever glorified for acts of unspeakable goodness. We teach about these people, read about them, view them in high-definition plasma-color… we imagine them as larger than life embodiments of ideals altogether unrecognizable in ourselves.

These epic tales of whimsical champions, viscous villains, and brightly colored spandex jumpsuits… inspire a sense of heroism in us, a desire to help others, a call to arms in the battle for the “greater good”

But many of the worst horrors of human history, they-who-shall-not-be-named and dastardly deeds infamized by acts of unspeakable terror… were also perpetuated by people who truly felt in their hearts that they were helping people, that all their efforts were for the “greater good”

Hitler will forever go down in our texts books as a villain, and there are few who would contest that. But Hitler believed himself to be a hero, and persuaded many others to believe that as well. He had a vision of what he believed to be a better world, and he wanted to make that vision a reality.

His logic, was deeply, deeply flawed.
But he didn’t need logos to rally the following that he did.
He just needed pathos.

Logos without Pathos, doth a jackass make. This reporter will be the first to admit that she is partial toward such jackassery, especially in this dank age of meme.

But Pathos, without Logos, is deadly, and highly infectious.

Finding a balance between the two… without just falling back on Ethos like a Donald Trump “believe me” compilation… is tough, but I do believe we have all made some headway here.

Please discuss.

On that note, I leave you with the musing that I reflect on here tonight, in both the peeve that grinds my righteous gears of indignation, and in self-reflection of such advice I may have yet to take in full heed:

to discuss is to seek understanding, not to be understood.