I’m not talking about the type that you have at night… although I sometimes dream so vividly that they will cast shadows across the consciousness long into the day… No. I mean the dreams that I might have stuffed into a tiny corner of my mind many years ago.
Even before Anorexia poisoned the greater part of my mind, I think I’d stopped dreaming properly. I was a ruthless gardener, pruning without sentiment, uprooting indiscriminately. No sooner than the fresh stem appears, I cut it off. 
For the purpose of this post, I’m laying my secateurs down. Curiously, I have to really squint to see the tiny beginnings of dreams. Some so small I can’t even identify them.
One is to travel. Preferably across the US… in a truck… with a camera and a guitar.
Another is to live abroad for a year
One is to recover from this illness and then serve others who are plagued by it.
And I’d really like to have a craft business, or a coffee shop.
Oh… and I want to write a book… or two…
Then there’s one I can barely see, is a dream I fear to admit. The dream of all dreams. The dream that almost everybody has. I screw up my eyes and exhale as I blow away the seeds… If I admit it, it might not come true…
Blog, Sweat and Typos 
