This is what I am.

In every part of life, everyone needs dreams. In that part of life which is financial, everyone needs a monetary success dream. In that part which is social, a popularity dream. In that part which is marriage, a bliss dream. In that part which is sexual, an erotic dream. In that part which is religious, a dream of the afterworld.

These dreams, for some, become the proper goals of a lifetime. For others, they remain dreams while the dreamer strives onward, trying to attain those dreams. In still others, the dreamer is content to dream. In the few remaining, the dream becomes an impossibility, something they can never have; thus the dream becomes a veritable nightmare, a season in Hell. I'm glad to admit that most of my dreams are of the first and second types: they all are, or have the potential of becoming, attainable goals, with the possible exception of that dream which is sexual in nature.

I would like to digress here and explicate a bit on the subjects of sexuality and eroticism. "Sexual" does not mean, necessarily, the act of, or dream of, or thought of actual physical love. A kiss, as I have found, can be the most sexual act two people can share. A smile, too, is sexual. A look, holding hands, many more simple actions can be very sexual in nature.

"Erotic" as well is often misinterpreted. It does not necessarily entail sex or perversion as the modern term all too often connotes. On the contrary, the word itself derives from the name of the Greek god Eros, the god of Love, as Aphrodite was goddess of the same. That is love, let me stress, and not lust, though certainly physical attraction has something to do with the former as well as the latter. But the fact remains that anyone can lust; only a few can love.

Secondly, what is love? Unfortunately, a logical explanation does not exist. No logical explanation exists for any emotion, for words cannot express, in any terms or to any degree, those indefinable emanations from what the more romantic of writers and poets would call the heart. But words can qualify it. Love is an idea, a philosophy of sacrifice for someone other than oneself. The greater the willingness to sacrifice, the greater the love. Love is respect. Not just respect of body and morals, but of mind, intellect, and soul (for lack of a better word). The greater the respect, the greater the love. Love is friendship, also a sacrifice, a willingness to be available, regardless of the circumstances or dilemma. The greater the friendship, the greater the love. Love is fantasy and dreams. Yet dreams and fantasies are an integral part of love, for without them, love turns quickly tarnished into lust, at best, if not apathy or hatred. The more beautiful the dreams, the more beautiful the fantasies, the greater the love.

But above all else, love is real. It is not solid, nor does it have mass or space; it is not physical or material, yet it has more impact on lives, individual and community, than any other force known to us. Love, or the tragic lack thereof, is the driving force behind our lives. Love and hate, two opposites, yet so alike as to almost lack full definition between the two. The fine line between them is a barrier created by the factors of sacrifice, respect, friendship, fantasy, dream, and reality. Depending on these, the wall is strong, resisting pain and disappointment, or pliable, swaying intermittently between the two, or weak, shattering at the first conflict. The question now is one concerning that wall, and it is one that must be answered by each individual: How willing am I to build a strong wall?

Now, this digression has gone far enough. To return to the matter at hand, however, a second digression is necessary, this one aimed, though, closer to the heart of the matter, that is, at my dreams. Everyone needs dreams, and, certainly, I have had my share of mine. At one point, I held the object of an erotic dream in such high esteem that she became, for me, a goddess, a haunting vision of beauty that I could never touch. I was shielded by a wall I created, a wall which confined me to the nightmare I had created for myself. I did, however, allow myself one escape, poetry. I could write poetically of touching her, of embracing her, but I knew, even as I wrote, that the ink would be the closest I would get.

Later, after several rather caustic relationships, all of my dreams of a "sexual" nature became just that, dreams. I was content to dream, to hope, though I had been hurt too much to let misguided emotions continue to manipulate me. So, I dreamed, and, oh, what dreams!

These dreams are constant still, lending me motivation in some endeavors, hindering me in others. But is it right to love a dream? Or, inversely, am I one of the many that do not love, and not one of the few that do, as I thought I was? I've always felt that love is what I feel, as opposed to lust, though at times I can certainly identify lust as one of a myriad of emotions caused by, say, a french bikini on a beach. But these "flashes" of lust I can classify as such. The one emotion I cannot classify is love. But, if any man can, he is certainly a better man than I.

Anger, too, is a difficult emotion to classify, especially when turned on oneself. It is hot on the outside, almost sensually so, but inside it is as cold as the deepest vacuum of space or time. This iciness freezes over all other emotions and breeds on itself, spreading to all thoughts and prejudicing them in its favor. It is a vicious circle, building and building until it explodes in a blast of cryonic and stagnant emotionlessness. I don't like the thought of that happening to me or anyone else, yet I feel anger toward myself for the mistakes I have made in my previous years. It is almost a self-hate. I need my good memories to ease the pain of that hate, but my good memories seem so few and far between at times.

Then, there are times when I feel as if I am crazy. No one really cares about my dreams or philosophies thereof. No one cares about the feelings I've kept hidden. No one cares about the writings of an insane, romantic, semi-schizophrenic college student. But no one loves anymore, either. No one cares anymore about music and the messages it can convey. No one cares about dreams, either their own or someone else's, no one but me, and they say I'm mad. Well, if caring makes one mad, then I am mad. I AM MAD!

To Whom it May Concern-
I promise, by my dreams, to take care of you and be faithful unto you. I promise to fulfill all duties as man and husband to the best of my abilities and beyond. I promise to love you. All this for rich or poor, sickness or health, now until eternity, forever and ever. Amen.

From Someone Else Whom it Concerns
I am beginning to ramble, now, as so often is the case when I delve too deeply into my own self. But I am, as always, merely one madman in a world gone mad and forthwith leave you as...

Your humble servant in love and dreams,
Howard Scott
15 October 1987