  Why do we dream? Derams are such silly things that take us away on the darkest of nights or the quietest of springs. They steal our hearts and enchant our minds. Dreams. A waste of time. Will it come true?
Rarely. But will I stop Dream? Never. To dream of what could be. To dream of what one is. To dream is to breathe.
To live. Dreams are such silly things. But silly in the most fantastic of ways. Silly like a child's tale to make you grin on a cloudy day. Silly like the joke of a friend to take your mind of hearbreak. Dreams fuel our desire to go on.
Without that desire, what would we do? Would a child still play? Would a friend still care? Such questions seem to have answers so obvious. But without the dream of pure, heartfelt joy, what would be their motivation do such things? Love.
Indirectly or directly, dreams are fueled by our love to live life to the fullest, to perfection. It may take a wise man to say it aloud, but any fool knows it true. Love makes our life worth while. And such a simple thing love appears on the surface. Such a simple word that portrays so much emotion. An yet so complex.
So complex that the greatest of scholars cannot put love into words known to us. So complex that the rechest of kings cannot put a price on it. So complex that one must experience love to understand it. And even then it is but a whimsy. To dream of it to go further. So is it, then, that we who love dream so full and so true?
I beleive the answer to that to be both yes and no. It takes true, heart felt love to dream; to really dream. For a passionless dream is but a fraud, an act, a though suspended on spontaneous nothingness. But can it be to feel no love at all? To be so empty, so devoid of all true, spiritual meaning to have every night a black, void slumber? And to spend every spring morning going about routine as if nothing were spectacular about being alive.
I hope not. For not to love nor dream nor live a life to perfection is to cease to exist. To be an empty, shattered personification of what should be. Never have I met someone who did not love. For many have their passions ill placed, but none to not love at all. And I pray, to any god that will listen, that no such preson exists.
For if they do, I pity them from my souls own heart. Yes. Dreams are silly things. But to live life ever planted beneath the soil is to never know the sun. 
