We dream of things. We all do, sometimes. We all wake up from worlds without end, often without remembering what made them so wonderful.

There’s something in my hand—like a stone, a jewel glinting in the darkness, or a ball of yarn unwinding down the path toward treasure…

You know what that is, right? Treasure, gleaming in the light of our dreams, in the heat of the dragon’s flames that coats it with its guarding breath. For what are dreams without their treasure? and what is treasure without its guardian?

I am not an adventurer. I strap on my sword and sling—the one that slew a giant (shall I cross over a river along my way? for hiding in the stream is the key to life)—and lo, I’m off on the road we all must wander down, for the race did not ask the racer if they should run, nor did the starting shot at the mark request our presence when we drew our first breaths and cried…

There is treasure under the rainbow, they say; treasure in dreams and down the road we all must walk, forward or backward—if I must walk, walk forward, I say, no matter how hard the road. Look! There’s a dragon! I think it looks a lot like me. Behold! In the face of the gold, I see my own.

We dream of things. We wake, we breathe, and perhaps I see the glimmer of flames in that early morning breath and inhale the golden sun, its gleam familiar in the light of day, like a jewel that glints or a stone in my hand— Who gives their child a stone? I wake. There are worlds without end. I remember— I remember what made them so wonderful.