I always thought the line “all that we see or seem/is but a dream within a dream” was from Shakespeare. Shows what I know – or actually, what I don’t know.
I really like this poem by Poe. It is quiet and reflective and lacks the morbidity associated with so much of Poe’s other work. It raises questions of life, death, reality, dreams.
Does our life pass us by so quickly that in the end it seems more like a dream than a reality we lived? Like when you drive from point A to point B, but upon reflection you don’t recall how you made the trip.
Are our days a dream? Not in the sense of something imagined, but more along the lines of dreamy – meaning ‘the ultimate’ or at least ‘better than anticipated.’
Or are we so focused on having something – anything – that we grasp at whatever comes our way? Do we anxiously hold on to family, dreams, life, love? Do we hold on so tightly that our handful of blessings trickles through our fingers like so many grains of sand?
I don’t know.
Sometimes my life seems unreal. Is this real or something I dreamed up?
Sometimes my life feels surreal. Is this my life or does it actually belong to someone else?
What makes life even freakier is when my dreams (those all-important, REM sleep, subconscious thought processing happenings) seem so real that I question my reality.
And then there are those times when I gasp in astonishment at how old I really am and I wonder where the time has gone. How many grains of sand remain cupped in my hands? Should I grasp them even tighter knowing my time on this earth is finite?
My hands clench in fear.
Is all that we see or seem/But a dream within a dream?