For Dreamers (And Elizabeth Anne Whitely)

No one ever said being a Dreamer was easy. One day, when one is young, it’s a sudden look up into the night sky, and then one is gone. It’s instantaneous, there is no time to choose or decide, and every day thereafter, the ones known as Dreamers find themselves drifting through a life of unrealities, and every reality that comes their way they think,

Well, certainly that can’t be all there is.

And that’s the gist of dreaming, isn’t it?

Every road leads to another road, every land leads to some other land; so every height reached has something above it. There’s always something new to be thought up, always something that’s still there to whisk one away. To travel cockeyed, corkscrewed through the world so imbued with the feeling that one has barely even touched it, oftentimes resulting in dangerous unfulfillments or zealous raptures—this is how a Dreamer sees things. Because, in point of fact, a Dreamer doesn’t actually see anything. Sight means nothing to a Dreamer, for a Dreamer sees not through the eyes but through the mind. Logic absurdifies and whimsies sail free. This is the tragedy of it all, to go through life being judged and deemed silly at every turn, and never having had the chance to decide if this is who one wanted to be.

Then, off one goes dreaming again.

That was the predicament of an Elizabeth Anne Whitely, who’s chronic hallucinations and internal adventures separated her from many things.

Foolish and laughable, little Elizabeth couldn’t give the time of day, the correct spelling of words such as sincerely, column, or whether, and was very much lost about the finer things in life, such as makeup and jewelry. Her four sisters teased her night and day, her mother was filled with head shakes, and her father avoided her altogether; after all, he had four other daughters he could dote on and show off.

Yet this little Dreamer was about to embark upon something very special. You see, sometimes Dreamers find things that the rest of the non-Dreamer world misses. It came to her on a Thursday, while sitting at the dinner table, picking at her food absentmindedly, as she always did.

Suddenly, in her daydream, something unexpected happened.

A gentleman that she didn’t plan to have there appeared. He wore a fresh tuxedo, a top hat, and he clutched a silver cane in his right hand.

He said, “Take the train. 5 o’clock in the morning sharp. West and Hammond. I’ll be waiting.”

Elizabeth sat, very unnerved, but intrigued all the same. She knew it was illogical. She knew it couldn’t have been real.

But she was one of the Dreamers. Logic absurdifies and whimsies sail free. She lived in unrealities, and traveled cockeyed, corkscrewed through the world, and every day that passed she couldn’t help but think, Well, certainly that can’t be all there is.

So that night, she packed a lunch, her little compass, a good-luck charm, a pocket knife, and slipped on her rain jacket and her good pair of boots, and hurried out into the early dawn, imagining something marvelous around the bend.

What happened next? Well, that’s for Dreamers, not for the simple likes of you and me. However, I will say this:

She never came back.       

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