A-haa. Dreams must be excavated. Not clutched for somewhere up in the stars. No reaching for the stars and settling halfway for the moon. Pardon my french but that's B.S. "We begin to excavate our buried dreams. This is a tricky process. Some of our dreams are very volatile, and the mere act of brushing them off sends an enormous surge of energy bolting through our system. Such grief! Such loss! Such pain! It is at this point in the recovery process that we make what Robert Bly calls a 'descent into ashes.' We mourn the self we abandoned.'" - Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way.
Ahh . . . dreams, volatile? Yes. They can be. Not because they are glittering stars . . . that would mean they lie outside of us. A natural distance between us and them. Safer that way? Safer than something so intrinsic to us that they cannot be removed, ignored or left alone. It is within our skin that our dreams exist. Like seeds in the soil. Is this perhaps why I have shied away from certain dreams? Handled the nicer dreams with more ease and approval and misinterpreted other ones as too risky, too volatile? When I touch them, they frighten me because they are too big, and they are too much a part of me. If they are rejected, disapproved, or die, I die with them. If I don't expose them to rejection and disapproval, they will at least be safe. I can play nice. Watch them like tiny little combustible fireflies in a jar. Pretend they are stars to be reached for, rather than fires that burn me from the inside out, begging to be bonfires and fireworks and fearful smoke.
P.S. I wrote you those nice poems only because the honest ones would frighten you. - Jewel, A Night Without Armor
Cameron pinpoints the culprit. "In dealing with the suicide of the 'nice' self we have been making do with, we find a certain amount of grief to be essential." Our nice self. (Nice, ie. comfortable, appeasing.)
Not time to play nice. Not time to define what Sunny should look like, as an artist, as a person. But what Sunny does look like. Why do I always cloak it with who I want to be or who I should be? Offer it as an atonement? Point my finger to the stars and ask you if they are pretty? It's safer to leave them outside of me, rather than open my skin and show you my insides. More so, to open my skin to my "nice self" and watch her lift an eyebrow or look afraid. I'm stripping it down to the bare bones again so the seeds my Creator embedded flesh out. Think Avatar - the bioluminescent glitter embedded in the blue skin. This is how dreams exist. They are embedded in our selves. And must be excavated. Volatile, but alive.