The Sound of a Dream

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Of course “they” say lots of things. They always have and they always will. It’s not that they don’t have good intentions, but how could they possibly know everything? Even if everyone was truly in touch with each other and all the answers were presented wrapped in a bow, the party would still be a bust. And “nobody” is a big word when referencing something as vast as space. Even though we have sent probes deep into its expanse, although we’ve stared through telescopes into the stars and recorded astonishing sights, and though we build massive satellites to receive messages - we just don’t hear. If they tried, without fear of failure and threw all their might and will at the puzzle, they couldn’t hope to understand it. This puzzle was complex, big, ever changing, never ending, and it was beyond our reach. Some things are and we just can’t get all the way there on our own. It’s too far and too overwhelming. For most, it’s just too hard to try.

Dreamers have walked darkness like a pleasant trail for as long as life has existed. Flying through the clouds or forgetting to wear pants to school are common adventures for the weary traveler of the world of sleep. Lost teeth and falling into an abyss keep us up in the wee hours, and monsters under the bed drive us from slumber. Because dreams in the night tend to be hard to control. Dreams during the waking hours - now those are the ones worth giving effort to.

Visions and emotions coupled with movement and control make the dreams of the day a much more powerful tool indeed. You see, dreamers can produce ideas, and ideas can lead to answers, and answers can lead to change, and change could really make dreams come true. Dreamers take pebbles in the pond and make waves that impact distant shores. They break down strong walls and open up locked doors. Dreamers make noise. Maybe it’s because they don’t like silence. Maybe it’s because they don’t like the ways things are. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Either way, they make noise. The waves, the walls, the destruction of boundaries and windows of opportunities presented by that crashing makes a way. It lights a path, it marks the map. And it moves. Much like the energy of lightening bolt creates a glow, it also creates something that travels far…

Because then there’s a sound. The crackle of a fire, the babble of a brook, the buzz of a fly. That is the aforementioned thunder. The shout for help. The laughter of a friend. The yes we had been waiting for. The power of a voice has been forgotten because we fear the resulting echo. The joy that artists shared, tales that bards spun, and hymns chanted had carried while songs were sung, conversations were had, and speeches had inspired. But those precious few had been silenced by the nothingness of hate. This cruel cancer creeps and haunts, crawls like a beast and clings like black ooze. Empty as a void; pitch as a moonless night. Encroaching to block out light and erase connections. The bowl over the lamp had darkened the world to a point that hiding alone seemed like the only option. At least you couldn’t be hurt if no one can get to you. Nobody can. It feels safer there.

Yet , an encouraging compliment can change a day. A call from a friend can calm the nerves. The familiarity of a greeting in crowd can relieve stress. A song can conjure memories and carry us away. If a whisper of a word can make cities fall, love begin, and dreams into a reality... then what if?

What if you knew in your soul that you had the ability. What if you can, meant that you should. What if you had a purpose you believed in, and despite the odds stacked against you - you had something to say. A stirring inside your being that wanted change. And as for a “scream” - now there is something a person could get behind. Take a deep breathe, you’re going to need it.

Here’s the catch. The facts are not as or how we would wish it. Our souls realize the truth from birth, and our age brings us closer to the honesty that is, we aren’t alone. And if running isn’t working, turning to face fear might be the only option. Yelling in its face our only weapon. Hurtling the cry with desperate intent - projecting it out and away.

And that sound - incredible in power yet infinitely small when compared to scary “vacuums” found a way. That sound became heard. That message became known. As a beacon it shone, like a bulb hung on a porch in summer, it attracted. A lighthouse during a storm, a guide to the lost. The lonely place seemed less so when filled with something - even if that something was a gut wrenching howl of hope.

It wasn’t that It was listening - not in the way that you do with ears. Not in the way a dog tips it’s head to the side when you ask it a question it never understands. Not in the way a child repeats a sound a mother makes. Not in the way a deer perks up alerted when a stick cracks under the paw of a predator in the undergrowth. Not that It was an it in the sense that you or I could identify, but existed it did. And heard it had. And without a sound it came. It was on it’s way.