My most visceral dreams are usually a delayed fantasy about something or someone I desperately want, yet haven’t had the courage or faith to go get. As women of a certain “class”, we’re generally accustomed to having men address our dreams and in turn, we open ourselves up to a more vulnerable part of our inner lives, perhaps bodies. If I’m really being honest, my dream is to have a family, raise children, be a great wife, and stay sexy, while continuing my education and love for learning. Now, if I’m really being completely  honest, my sweaty dreams are what keep me in bed, keep me hot and eager to again, close my eyes, and return to being the Eve to Adams book. Occasionally, sweat and dreams merge and reality feels like a blissful fantasy, normally cut off way too soon for my satisfaction. So although my heavy breathing and perspiration tend to be a sole adventure, I’m blessed with regards to having a brain active enough to still make fun of my heart. 

So many women in today’s society no longer dream as their inherited beauty became a dried up, deadened inability to feel and through years of treasured travels, wet beaches, all too nude for even my wildest of dreams, the princess feels too young to be hooked on tranquilizers and too old too be so unhappy. It’s said that suicide is statistically reserved for the “super rich”. I’m happy and grateful for still wanting, wishing, even wallowing n what I want SO badly. The day I can no longer distinguish between what’s salty and sunny, ready to get wet, and cool off, becomes the moment I look back with regret for who I once was.