I once had a dream that I was in a small white boat, and that boat was in the middle of a lake; but this lake was not filled with water. It was filled with dreams.
Swirling hues of gold and indigo and violet and amber, the colours of millions of dreams cavorting beneath its gently rippling surface. And the dreams would flow away from the lake, with the lightness of mist, in river-like tendrils to the minds and hearts of people all around the world. And I watched, from my boat, as the dreams spilled forth. But the lake never emptied, because when one dream left it was quickly replaced by another.
When I watched the sunset at Pine Lake, Alberta, I was reminded of that dream. Of water that wasn’t water, of rivers that weren’t rivers. But dreams.
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