Some folks, even the sharp and successful ones, swear there’s no real meaning in dreams. They say it’s just random neural sparks. The brain “digesting” the day’s events.
When I stumble across such posts or tweets, I can’t help but smile. I feel like a bushman in the Kalahari Desert, puzzled why the outsider can’t read the animal stories etched in the sand’s tracks.
The irony? The tourist probably thinks the bushman’s primitive, his tales mere fantasy. But the “people of the steppe” have a secret: they’ve studied these patterns for 60,000 years. This isn’t idle curiosity—it’s survival in the harshest lands.
I’m no bushman—I got hooked on dreams maybe five years back—but I’ve already collected hundreds. Dreams reward you. They show up more often when they’re welcome.
Dreams are like messages scrawled in hieroglyphs or code. To the untrained eye, they’re just scribbles on a wall, like a child’s mischief or, worse, a teenager’s prank.
It took time, but I learned to unearth their meaning. Books on philosophy and psychology helped, along with careful study of individual dreams and their patterns.
Yesterday, my therapist said, “Wow, your dreams guide you! Your psyche works day and night.” They reveal changes already rooted inside, not yet blooming outside.
Sure, it’s no GPS—just a clunky mechanical compass from the Song Dynasty. I’m grateful for it.
Dreams don’t give directions like GPS. They’re more like the first mechanical compass from the Song dynasty. Crude, but I’m grateful. In total darkness, any spark is a blessing.
People who don’t believe in treasures hidden in the mud never find them.
Sincerely yours,
-Alexander
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