We tend to keep our dreams there so they stay safe. If we allowed our dreams to live in the here-and-now they may be crushed. Or at least bruised and bloodied.
So our dreams are (for most) forever a figment. An ethereal imagining that’s just around the bend. One we can talk about kindly and generously like an old friend we haven’t seen in more years than we knew them. They become legend and they comfort, though we know the secret in our heart-of-hearts: we don’t actually intend for them to become real. We are perfectly content to let them stay this way; out of reach, unblemished, and perfect in their vagueness.
Unless of course, someone else wants to come and make them real for us, and set them gently into our shaking hands. But that’s not possible, is it? And that’s the scary, beautiful, completely unspoken truth.
No, I think for most of us, we tend to do about as well as we can without enduring too much pain. Enough, to where we feel slightly uncomfortable, but not enough to watch a dream die under the harsh light of the present.
Not enough to suffer that, and then to keep on dreaming in the present.