Hell is Empty and all the Devils are Dreams

One of the many reasons why I love the show Creature Comforts is its attention to language, and it brings up the interesting concept of how in English we use the same word, “love,” to mean affection to a mother, a pickup truck, a dog, and so forth. It’s not a word we typically set aside.

Another one of those is “dream."

The other night I had a dream where I was on the beach and some big, muscles-glistening guy was walking down the stairs of the boardwalk into the sand as I was walking up, and he didn’t bother to look up and I kept walking and he kept walking and then he bumped right into me and told me to watch where I was going, and I pushed him. And then I woke up completely stressed and short of breath. 

But that evening, as I was chatting with Tamra, my sounding board for all things logical, I didn’t even mention it. Only Shakespeare gets away with mentioning dreams and it being socially acceptable. Instead, we talked about our dream folders; our caches of perfect homes and cars and cruise ships. We dreamt about how wonderful it would be to spend the day tanning in the Mediterranean, with grapes and cheese at the ready, and listening to the waves crash upon the same shores where thousands of years of history were made. Where people looked up towards the thousands of stars in the sky and truly dreamed and created.

Why is it that the activity that happens from time to time at night shares the word as something that we strive to make true? Isn’t this a misstep in our diction, like loving the people we care for with the same word that we can apply to our iPhone cases?