Quotes About Dreams

Even when I was a little kid, I always said I would be in the movies one day, and damned if I didn't make it.

I never met anybody who said when they were a kid, "I wanna grow up and be a critic.

I'm the boy who's going to glom onto this junk—if I'm lucky.

Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future. Sure, I sink the boat of love, but that comes later. And yes, I swallow glass, but that comes later.

Anything past the horizon is invisible, it can only be imagined. You want to see the future but you only see the sky.

In these dreams it's always you: the boy in the sweatshirt, the boy on the bridge, the boy who always keeps me from jumping off the bridge. Oh, the things we invent when we are scared and want to be rescued.

These are the dreams we should be having. I shouldn't have to clean them up like this.

I kept my mind on the moon.

It could have been so beautiful . . . how it was and how it will be, memory and fantasy

I would like to meet you all in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we transcend the story of our lives

Who am I? I'm just a writer. I write things down. I walk through your dreams and invent the future.

It is too heavy, says the canvas. You lack restraint. I was sleeping in whiteness, drifts of snow, and you woke me and told me your dream, my blank face upturned, listening. You came to me while we were sleeping, we were both sleeping, and you asked me to hold this for you. I am holding this for you.

These are the dreams we should be having.

We used to dream about them. We used to do a lot of things.

I had four dreams in a row where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire.

Willpower, gunpowder, concussive thunder. Pink, orange, red, orange dreaming red.

Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart. — Richard Siken, from "The Language of the Birds," War of the Foxes (Copper Canyon Press, 2015)

you would be surprised how many people seriously limit their dreams. They're your dreams for heaven's sake. There should be no limit to them. Plans have to be realistic; dreams don't.

PLANS HAVE TO BE REALISTIC; DREAMS DON'T

Scents, dreams, thoughts — even words — they all try to stick around, but we ignore them, so they leave.

To know your ruling passion, examine your castles in the air.

They could lie drowsing now under the sound of kindly voices in the living room, a sound whose intricately rhythmic rise and fall would slowly turn into the shape of their dreams. And if they came awake later to turn over and reach with their toes for new cool places in the sheets, they knew the sound would still be there—one voice very deep and the other soft and pretty, talking and talking, as substantial and soothing as a blue range of mountains seen from far away.

Sometimes in dreams there are visions of the past. For that reason Alice Prentice had always welcomed sleep, but she suffered an insomniac's dread of the time just before sleeping, the act of falling asleep itself, the perilous twilight of semi-awareness when the mind must struggle for coherence, when a siren or a cry in the street is the very sound of terror and the ticking of the clock is a steady reminder of death.

There are many who don't wish to sleep for fear of nightmares. Sadly, there are many who don't wish to wake for the same fear.