And I dream too much and I don’t write enough, and I’m trying to find God everywhere

Dearest Gentle Reader,

We have been apart for too long; you must forgive my reticence. On the days that I am not tired, I grow like the quickening hues. I flounder, where the ice snap and the clast are known. I have binge-watched Bridgerton episodes on other days.

In the stillness of this single night, when the world is hushed and the moonlight casts silver shadows upon my walls, I have found myself adrift in a sea of dreams. They come unbidden, these flights of fancy, whisking me away to realms unknown and times long past. Yet, with each new dawn, I am struck by a sense of yearning, t's a constant battle within me, a tug-of-war between the ethereal world of my imagination and the tangible reality of putting pen to paper.

Long before Lisan Al Gaib, I have dueled with Feyds disguised as burnouts or perhaps Knivesouts. I once called Benoit Blanc for help; “did you say the words?” He whispered. “May thy knife chip and shatter? Have you tried this?” Oh, have Atreides?

This entire ordeal led me to Anis Mojgai’s headline; “And I dream too much and I don’t write enough, and I’m trying to find God everywhere.” It's so absolute, the optimal description.

As I search for the divine in the mundane, I invite you to journey with me through these musings of heart and soul.

Getty Images. A flying woman.

You see, I have always been a dreamer. As a child, my head was always in the clouds, conjuring up fantastical worlds and larger-than-life characters. Imagine, if you will, the cobbled streets of Verona, where lovers’ whispers linger in the air and the scent of blooming roses mingles with the cool night breeze. 'Tis here that I find myself, not as a mere observer, but as a character within a Shakespearean play. The stars above, like diamonds scattered upon a velvet canvas, seem almost close enough to touch, each one a silent witness to the stories unfolding below.

O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? The voice of Juliet, sweet and sorrowful, echoes through the ancient alleys. Her lament, a symphony of longing, speaks to the deepest corners of my soul. For in her plea, I hear my own—Wherefore art thou, Inspiration? Why dost thou elude me when I seek thee most?

Yet, even as I wander these dreamscapes, the quill remains idle, and the parchment blank. My heart is full of tales untold, but my hands fail to capture their essence. Is it not the plight of every dreamer, to be forever caught between the realms of what is and what could be?

---

Amidst these reveries, a persistent question haunts my waking hours—where might I find God? In the grand cathedrals that pierce the heavens with their spires? In the quiet corners of a library, where the whispers of ancient texts speak of forgotten truths? Or perhaps in the faces of strangers, each one a reflection of the divine spark that animates us all?

In the bustle of a city market, I see a glimpse of divinity in the weathered face of a fruit vendor, his eyes twinkling with the joy of simple labors. There, amidst the cacophony, lies a sacred harmony, a testament to the divine order that underpins the chaos of life. And in the gentle caress of a mother’s hand upon her child’s brow, I perceive a love so pure, it must surely be touched by the hand of God.

But alas, dear friend, though I see the divine in many things, I remain a dreamer, more adept at weaving fantasies than forging them into words. To write, or not to write—that is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of creative frustration, or to take arms against a sea of distractions, and by opposing, end them.

In my dreams, I am a bard of yore, my words flowing like the sweetest wine, intoxicating all who read them. But in the stark light of day, reality intrudes, and my eloquence falters. Yet, it is in this very struggle that I find a peculiar beauty. For what is the act of creation, if not a divine endeavour? To bring forth something from nothing, to breathe life into the void—this is the very essence of the divine spark within us. But here's the thing- dreams are just that, dreams. They are fleeting and intangible, like smoke dissipating into the air. And if we don't capture them, if we don't give them form and substance, they fade away into the oblivion of forgotten thoughts.

Permit me now to paint for you a scene from one of my most cherished dreams, a vision of a garden resplendent with every hue of the rainbow. In this enchanted place, every flower whispers secrets of the cosmos, and the air is alive with the melody of a thousand unseen choirs. It is a place where time stands still, and the soul is free to wander and wonder.

In this garden, I encounter a figure clad in robes of shimmering light. He speaks not with words, but with a presence that fills my heart with an inexplicable peace. Seek not afar for what lies within, he seems to say. And in that moment, I understand—the divine is not a distant deity to be sought in temples or texts, but a presence that dwells within each of us, waiting to be awakened.

While I share certain skepticism about religion, I am not indifferent. It is the only intellectual hypocrisy that benefits me (oh, the hypocrisy keeps getting worse). We all have a bias (not having one already makes you biased). I believe that God is not confined to the walls of a church or the pages of a holy book. I believe that God is everywhere—in the rustle of the leaves, in the whispers of the wind, in the laughter of a child.

And so, I seek God in the most unexpected places—in the clatter of the city streets, in the silence of the forest, in the chaos of my own mind. I seek God in the mundane and the extraordinary, in the ordinary and the extraordinary. Long may I find solace.

As I awaken from these dreams, I am filled with a renewed resolve. To write is to dream with open eyes, to capture the ephemeral and make it eternal. It is an act of faith, a declaration that our thoughts and feelings, our very lives, are worthy of being shared and remembered.

In the words of The Bard himself, We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep. Let us then, dear friends, embrace the dreams that stir our souls and commit them to paper, for in doing so, we honour the divine within us all.

The spectacle must continue apace.