| To every man his dream... |
[Jul. 3rd, 2008|10:19 pm] |
| [ | Feeling... |
| |  alone | ] |
| [ | The music in my mind... |
| | Wagner - O Fortuna | ] |
To each his Dulcinea
That he alone can name...
To each a secret hiding place
Where he can find the haunting face
To light his secret flame.
For with his Dulcinea
Beside him so to stand,
A man can do quite anything,
Outfly the bird upon the wing,
Hold moonlight in his hand.
Yet if you build your life on dreams
It's prudent to recall,
A man with moonlight in his hand
Has nothing there at all.
There is no Dulcinea,
She's made of flame and air,
And yet how lovely life would seem
If ev'ry man could weave a dream
To keep him from despair.
To each his Dulcinea...
Though she's naught but flame and air!
Dreams... What power they have. Don Quixote de La Mancha believed in them so much that his whole life and perception of it changed. He saw adventure in the mundane and beauty in the ordinary. He saw a giant in a windmill and treasure in a shaving bowl. He saw a Dulcinea in Aldonza! The whole world - no matter how broken, no matter how disfigured - Don Quixote saw as beautiful. Any situation - no matter how mundane, no matter how difficult - Don Quixote saw as a challenge, an adventure, an experience. And with that perception, he rode forward with flames of passion and idealism. It's not delusion, it not madness, though many will think it so. It is idealism, it is poetry. Miguel de Cervanted (Don Quixote) will admit that madmen and poets are very much the same in that they select from life what they see - not what is but what should be. And with that perception, there is no impossible; there is only challenge, there is only adventure.
But the power of dreams also holds a very dark and difficult side. In Sandman: Preludes and Nocturnes, Lucifer once said, "What power do dreams have here in Hell?" (or something like that) to which Morpheus replied, "What power does Hell have if those in it could not dream?" Therein lies the rub. When dreams come in contact with the devastating blow of a most dismal reality and reality's disfigured face and the dreamer falters from his dreams for just one brief moment, then the power of dreams turns against the dreamer. When Don Quixote de La Mancha was confronted by the Knight of the Mirrors, when he saw that he was nothing but a frail old man in a desolate wasteland. And in the moment he faltered, when his fingers started to slip from the dreams he clung so passionately to, all his dreams crushed him beneath their weight. That's why it is so important to stay true to one's dreams, to never lose hope. It is the dream of the possibility of heaven that tortures the souls in hell because those souls lost hope in attaining their dreams. They faltered. They gave up. They allowed despair to creep in and weaken the foundations of their strength (idealism and passion) and they we engulfed by its darkness.
Sadly, I've been faltering. I've allowed the creeping death to poison my very spirit and I am suffering for it. I need to recharge. I need to feel the warmth and soothing breeze of that flame and air. I need to taste the sweetness of Dulcinea. I need to find the reason why my dreams sustained me for so long without allowing me to fall into cynicism and despair lest I be engulfed by it all.
Funny... I realize how much I miss Sibol... |
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| Comments: |
Sayo yun??? OMIGADS!!! Bad-Assery at twelve o-clock!!!
Ah! Hindi hindi! I'm no poet. :P That's actually a part of the play. I'll leave the poet-ing to you. | |
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