daydreamer - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Upon the grass stands the white house of the bees, the wooden panels still wet with raindrops. There is a gentle buzz in the air, a sense of business that comes with such creatures and somehow it belongs here as much as the wildflowers that bloom. Anya takes her rest upon a rock and lets her eyes do the dreaming, her brain weaving reality and an array of fantasies. The hive is something of beauty to her, a sweet community making something so amazing in a way she never could. She is the daydreamer, the one who works by resting, and how we love her dreams.
The sail stands proud,
As if a window to the clouds.
I watch them sail above,
And imagine sitting upon puffed bows,
Watching myself sail below,
On timeless seas,
In seamless time,
They call it "maladaptive daydreaming," I say it's creativity. There's a difference. Maladaptive leads to decreasing productivity whereas mine leads to an increase. I don't just want to visit my fantasy worlds, I want to live in them, feel them, taste them. So why don't you keep your regimented minds with their straight lines and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. I don't care.
There is more to every story,
Or so I have heard them saying.
I always gaze into the infinity of the sky,
Observing the sky change its hues at different times of the day,
Seeking answers to a particular paradoxical question -
What about them?
I think in a state of haze.
Are they really happy?
Maybe we are misunderstanding everything;
Maybe they are in the wrong places;
Maybe, they want their fates to change.
Maybe, all that we perceive is them deceiving us.
Maybe, out there is an enigma
Full of anomalies and conundrums -
An obscure love story,
of Apollo and Selene.
Maybe they are in love
But can’t make it past their differences;
Maybe they are lost,
And have strayed from the path
That leads them to each other.
Maybe the dusk and dawn
are their surreal infinities;
Maybe they set and rise,
not for the world,
but for each other.
Maybe the stars glittering,
in the oblivion of the dark night,
are the tears that Selene sheds.
Maybe, Apollo makes the sun burn,
in his jealous rage,
since everyone but him can admire her grandeur.
Maybe the eclipse is the time when
One’s love overpowers the other’s
To create an amalgam of untold stories,
None of us will ever hear.
Maybe those spots on the moon are the impressions
Apollo’s lonely heart has suffered.
Maybe when the thunder sound fulminates
In the foggy, clouded sky,
It is Selene crying to the heavens, mourning in agony.
When the sun gleams through the canopies,
We rejoice, Placing it adjacent to many heavenly pleasures.
But maybe, above there, past the clouds
the two just hurt inside.
Maybe they are grieving,
Alone in the wilderness of their kingdoms,
Unnerved at the thought
of how long it would take for everything to fall into place.
‘Romeo and Juliet’ was a classic literature love,
But this is so much more -
Love that is pure and heavenly;
Love that is silent,
Yet speaks out so loud and clear.
Love, not the whole world could witness.
The old quacks said his daydreaming was "maladaptive" and that it needed to cease if he was to become a functioning member of society. Jed retorted that society was maladaptive and if it joined him in his daydream humanity just might have a chance.
Brook absently stared at the sky, preserving only a sliver of attention on the long, dried blade of grass he twirled between his fingers. It was hard to tell where his mind was at. Leading an army of ten thousand into battle perhaps? Or sailing the seas alongside his unflinching, undaunted crew. Adventures of perilous journeys and triumphant outcomes to satisfy any young heart. Or perhaps he wasn't thinking at all, but instead simply taken by the endless sea of blue that silently rocked above his head, flawed only by a white November sun.
Lost in his eyes, deeper and deeper I go until I'm lost in his heart. The beat of his heart becomes my surroundings and my heart beat matches his by default. As I think about his hair, his eyes, his body, I transcend into a beautiful world which contains all of the happy memories of him and I. I sink deeper into these thoughts and I cherish how he makes me feel. God, I love this man. His faults are his perfections, his words are my thoughts and his heart is forever locked onto mine. Please don't ever wake me up from these beautiful thoughts because when I'm lost inside his mind, I find myself.
Up the weathered stone grew ivy tendrils covered in dark green leaf. The plant was no gardeners friend, not the way it spread, but to her eye it was as beautiful as any other. It wasn't like the dandelions in the lawn, it made the wall look like something out of the "secret garden." She imagined her self shrunk to the size of a frog, perhaps she'd climb it like Jack and his beanstalk. She sighed at the thought. An adventure would be so awesome right now, but there were always chores to do...
He was always the idle one. When given any task to do it was half done half-heartedly, always his mind was on something else. He was called "the daydreamer," and it was not a term of endearment. The tones used had not a shred of affection. He grew spindly compared to the other boys because of his tendency to sit and because he was fed less protein. No-one saw the point in feeding good meat to a shirker. He grew into a man that no woman would take. He could not provide. Then one day he dreamed up a new way to cut the corn, a machine that would mean one man was able to achieve the work of a dozen in less time. Of course no-one would listen, he was the daydreamer after all. So he took his plans to the master carpenter and promised him the home and land he had inherited as payment if he could not give what he owed in a year.
And the boy who watches with his pen in hand. He smiles from the window, his heart lighter than that of the workload sitting on the desk. Laid out before him, music theory, history, algebra. The pen has left its stain between his fingers. Long since dried and black around his callouses, its knowledge has dripped. A scribble instead of andante, a doodle instead of logarithm. His papers scarcely touched, having hardly enough to contribute anything to the world, for an hour his mind has been wandering in another land.
As Claire aged the boundary between daydream and delusion grew thinner. Once she conjured marvel-like alternate selves to be super heroes, now she began to wonder if she was one. No more was it an out of reach daydream, the chance if it being her that saved the world grew ever more sharply into focus, the plan etched out slowly so as not to scare her back into her shell.
The daydream was a heady potion of chance and excitement, a personal movie with herself as the main character. With a simple whim the plot could change direction, dramatic and swift. She breathed in the scent of the grasses and remained oblivious to the white-puffed clouds above, lost in her enchanted world of make-believe.
The daydream blossomed like a spring flower, unfurling a delicate petal at a time. It was such a rich fantasy world, a life within a life, a chance to live her dreams without leaving the comfort of home.
Daydream nation - that's what we are. But who would want to stay fully plugged into a destroyed world? Who wants to wake up and remember that we killed the trees and destroyed the oceans? Daydreams are what keep our hearts beating, the chance to live in a pure world again before we fall asleep for our long night.
If I could wrap the world in a perfect blanket of love I would; I would wish it to come from the very stars and settle like perfect morning dew. If I could soothe every child, feed every child, there is nothing that would stop me trying other than death itself. Yet there is more than one way to die, just as there is more than one way to live. When my mind takes me to a place so embattled that a bullet would feel like a mercy, it's time to protect myself. I am lucky in that I never stand alone, that I am so loved, yet often the medicine I need is retreat, solitude, to feel the beauty of our mother earth and meditate on notions of spirituality. I guess that makes me a daydreamer, but if just daydreaming can heal this shattered mind then I reserve the right to do so - to walk, to talk, to let my inner child go free.