That was only once.

Between the cool of night and the sun's rise, the song remains the same.

I sleep. Most of the time, I even dream. One time I dreamt Prince Harry of Wales came to America to hang out with me.

That was only once.

I Shamelessly sit on the edge of my futon after 4 hours of rest. A slight irritation in my throat from the shifts in weather, and a slight slither of sunlight reveals a quarter of my rooms contents. It's a calm ominous. A personal kind that one can be comfortable in because they understand that the button for the feng-shui floor lap is 2 feet away.

The unknown isn't as daunting when one can simply hit a button.

Something in my dreams amazed me. I could Vagabond around the coasts of Africa in search for civilization's core, or backpack through ancient ruins with the hopes of absorbing a hint of the air's aura once filled with ancient philosophers and historic murmurs.

But none of this would be like a dream.

A dream to aspire too. To reach for. Dreamt over lifetimes, during classroom lectures, and pondered upon during cafe conversations? Perhaps.

But not like one dreamt between the cool of the night and the sun's rise.
One that left me sitting on the edge of a futon at an awkward hour distinguishing between types of dreams.

Fulfilling a dream is a lot different from having a dream.

I saw Anthony Bourdain and Anderson Cooper travel the world and mix it up.

They made me dream.

I - insert some eclectic mixture of psychology, studies of the brain, and life decisions that having seemingly nothing in common- and mix it up.

They made me dream.

I know what it's to dream in aspiration. I'm writing because I don't know why it's like to dream in slumber.

What the hell was that dream about man?

I sat in a university cafeteria eating lunch with a guy I hadn't seen in at least a year, and even when I last saw him we didn't have the "buddies-break-bread" relationship. A cute freshman girl looks at me with mystery, much like she does in reality. Foxy Roxy walks by with a camera and note pad, and although I know she's a journalist, I've never seen her "journalize". Before I wake up "Dreams like Oceans" by Meg & Dia plays.

"My dreams remind me/ of an ocean/ the feel so open/ like you could float in them"

Perhaps all of these people were projections of my subconscious? Like Inception . Leonardo Di Caprio broke into my mind while I was sleep. He left between the cool of the night and the sun's rise?

Suddenly. Shamelessly. Dreams of aspiration make more sense.