Last night I was in the car with my dad. It was just before sunset. I had been rushing the previous hour to get ready for a social outing. There was some Celtic-tribal music on in the background.
I looked up, and the sight took my breath away.
The sky was the most perfect blend of pastels. The sun was setting on a horizon of perfectly sculpted clouds. The rays struck peaks and cast shadows in valleys of clouds. The earth around me was a uniform grey, but not dreary. More like the incredible resolution attained by black-and-white photos.
I turn around and, bathed in blue pastels, was the pale, full moon. I had a sudden shift in perspective, in the same manner as many of my dreams. I felt like the sky was embracing my entire being. There was our sun, our own star, hovering ceaselessly in cool space, spilling its light onto an almost alien world. I felt very small. It felt good.
My only thought: “How can it be that I’m not dreaming?”
I don’t think people take enough time out of their day (and night) to really appreciate what’s around them. They barrel head-first through life, hoping that with that next new raise, that next vacation, that next night in front of the TV they will be happy.
We are all capable of being happy without our material possessions and superficial pleasures— if we only stepped back for a second and looked.
At the theater that night, my friend asked me “What is reality?” I said to him “Life itself is a dream.” He asked me who the dreamer would be. I said, “To us, he would seem a God.”