The fields that consumed my mind were often projected into reality. I would sit for hours at my desk, toiling at the white paper when suddenly, a field as perfect as painting, would span across my horizon. The visuals were…surreal. But the memories were where I developed. I search endlessly to this moment for those memories. Memories of days that were just “more”. Dreams are fleeting and pleasant experiences in which we can not know, but memory does us justice. In our memories, we serve ourselves because they require work. Memories demand that we pay close attention to life. We can try as we might to repeat the dreams and experiences that we yearn for, but the memories are where direct effort comes into play. As close to real knowledge as they are, memories are almost more real. I cannot remember when was last I forgot a dream.