True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy,
Which is as thin of substance as the air
And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the north,
And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence,
Turning his face to the dew-dropping south.
– Mercutio (Romeo & Juliet)
I distrust my dreams. I hate the feeling of realising what you have dreamt can never happen.
Most times daydreams too.
But I guess if everything came as easily as I wished it would, would I cherish or savor the result as much? If I could buy a little ceramic pot, as opposed to going through the motions of cutting, measuring, rolling, kneading, joining, spinning, firing, glazing, and getting a less perfect pot of my own, which will I cherish more? I think I like my little pot on my table I made more than anything else I can buy.
But is all the agony worth it in other cases. Especially when I tend to not get a result at all. Its like going though all the motions of making the pot and it shatters in the kiln before I can even see the end product.