I was dreamin’ when I wrote this,
Forgive me if it goes astray…
The title of today’s musing:
What dreams are made of
Scratch that. My dyslexic mind swirls and suggests an alternative.
A better question would be…
Dreams are made of what?
And from here we commence:
Where does one find the source of our imagination? I don’t believe there is a physical center in the brain that scientists have determined (despite the conflicting evidence that some people have identified it an had it surgically removed; often along with their sense of humor). Granted, studies using scan and imaging machinery have proven there are sections of our brains are more often revved up when engaged in creative acts, like painting, composing music, or writing sonnets. Researchers call such techniques “neato cool,” a technical term in this case used to mean “really, really close to that Star Trek style stuff that we love to watch,” but still are unsuccessful in advancing the technology to the levels they would prefer.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECHHH! BUMP! BUMP!
That’s the sound of technology reaching the end of the currently layed tracks. Actually, in this age of digital imagers and the online information highway, reaching the end of the road would sound more like an old modem attempting to dial up, but I’m to lazy to try to simulate the bleating, static-y drone of 1s and 0s.
The answer won’t be found with technology – few answers are discovered that way, anyhow. We usually build stuff on a hunch to confirm what we’re pretty sure we already know. There are exceptions to the rule, but I don’t believe we shall find one here.
Where were we? Searing for the root of imagination. Yes. Quite right. Let me continue…
Note: Some of you may think I’m stalling. Some of you weren’t thinking that before, but presently are now that I’ve brought the subject up. Most of you were, just now became, or shortly will become right in your belief that it’s the truth.
I don’t have jack here. I’m trying to make means by no means, with apologies to
Roger Miller, and am coming up a bit short.
I believe God gives us a driving spark, but I don’t know where it is found or how it works or why it blazes on in some and burns out in others or why we’re able to share so little light compared to the untold brilliant potential of an infinite number of suns that sparkles in all of us or what would happen if we stopped trying to light the darkness.
I wish I did.
I simply know it’s there. I still feel compelled to ask the unanswerable. I feel like there is something worthwhile to be discovered in the course of the search, even if we never find that intellectual holy grail.
While I can’t imagine ever solving the quandaries, I equally can’t imagine how dismal life would be if we didn’t try to.
Many give up and shift their attention on to “more important” things. I do the same sometimes.
But somewhere inside, something still flickers pushing me to dream bigger and try to imagine something even grander than the plain, concrete world I typically live in.
Consider it the “Call of the bewildered.”
Would you please excuse me? I’ve got to take this. Pardon me while I slip “outside” and chase some “existential” fireflies.
After all, I believe someone needs to.
I’ll leave a light on for you all.
