Of what profit is a dream? It drives one to despair to follow it, it makes one sleepless, obsessed, driven, and yes, mad to go the way of these distant desires. They, too, so rarely come true, and never how you would expect; these fantasies give no clue as to how they translate into the waking world's brick and mortar, steel and glass. Furthermore, to truly pursue the pie in the sky, much of one's life is usually forfeit to its whims. Years, a decade, more: a dream cares not about clocks. In a blink, you look around, and the whole world has changed around you as you pursued the ethereal endeavor. It would seem to me that dreams have ruined many more lives than they have saved, caused more suffering than the all the dark things of the world put together.
But yet, I will not give them up. No: I, along with all my brethren who have truly dreamed, we hold the pain that they have caused us as scars of honor. For to dream, to hope for something and pursue that thing to the furthest corner of the winds, there is a virtue there that cannot be bought. Even if to follow it meant our end, it would be a noble death indeed to perish while in such pursuit. I have been on occasion a tortured soul, both with and without dreams, and there is a fundamental difference between the two. To agonize about nothing in particular is a terrible thing, a pointless suffering; if there is a purpose why, there is no pain great enough to defeat you. Sometimes, the journey itself is enough reward, even if the dream leads us back to the start, to dream again.
