"Dream a little dream of me...."

The other day, on my way out somewhere, I heard someone ask his friend the timeless question - how is life?
I quietly asked myself that question and phrases flashed in my head - oppressive heat, uninspiring work, alienation from familiarity, vague feeling all day everyday stemming from being a regular doormat.
Without warning, I was reminded of the dreams I've had of an 'ideal life'. Dreams that I've shared with different individuals at some point in my life of almost 20 years. Dreams that sometimes seem like some bizarre alternate reality.

I've always wanted to be a writer. A full-time writer. As a child I also wanted to be a musician, a singer, a doctor and a dancer. Music and the written word are still very much the mainstays of my life. Sort of like the much romanticised first love, that one never forgets. Not writing for a considerable time makes me feel like something has congealed within me, as if the blood in my body isn't flowing as effortlessly as it usually does and absence of music just makes life so unbearably empty.

In my idealistic dreams, I'm a writer. A woman who walks around in those checked, knee length kurtas in muted colours and faded dirty jeans. Hair piled up high and wearing my black-frame glasses, I sit at my desk in the afternoon, in my 'writing room' tucked away in a quiet corner of the house. I tap away at the keyboard, turning visual images into words on the screen while country music plays softly in the background.

My mom, comes into the room once in a while and mumbles something about a filthy room and a few yells to eat my lunch. I sit unmoved and continue writing. I take breaks in between, bending to scratch behind the ears while thinking about how best to present an idea in words.

After a while, I get up to check on the cold un-eaten lunch. Mom is sleeping in her room on her back, her arms and legs stretched out and mouth slightly open. I call for her and she looks at me with bleary, sleep-swollen eyes from where she lies on the bed.

Later that evening, the family has dinner together. Me and my dad eat in silence as the telly news makes up for the loss of noise.

We watch a midnight program of old songs together and before I could try and strike a conversation with each other, he yawns and switches the lights off... An ideal day one would call it in my life...

I've nurtured dreams of this kind of a life for a very long time, protecting it carefully like children carefully cupping little treasures with their delicate hands.
Dreams, I've come to realize, might just be the only things that keep people going in this dreary world.

Dream a little dream by Beautiful South

Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper I love you
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me

Say nighty-night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me

Stars fading, but I linger on dear
Still craving your kiss
I'm longing to linger till dawn dear
Just saying this

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave our worries behind you
But in your dreams whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me...