Writing Dreams

If I could run away, I’d be gone. I’d clamber up the fence onto the roof and take off running. I’d bound up into the air and across the fields of puffy white clouds, bouncy and weightless. 

I’d fall through the mist, letting playful tendrils of wind tousle my hair. I would reach the treetops and a giant butterfly would swoop beneath me and carry me up into the air. We’d fly till the sky transformed into a blanket of indigo, and I’d reach out and brush the glowing stars with my fingertips. 

After circling the moon and swerving between comets and meteors, we would land in a mystical world of dewdrops and swirling fantasies. Landing softly in a bed of flowers, I’d dream of fairies and wishes and stardust. 

Then I’d wake up. Back in my boring, messy room, surrounded by piles of clothes and stuffed animals. And I’d remember my strange, spectacular dream. So I’d grab the nearest notebook and jot it all down before I forgot. 

Because that’s what writers do. We pull the magic from our minds and spread it onto paper, so we can revisit our dreams anytime and anywhere and everywhere.