I will learn to lead �eets. I will win. I will sharpen myself into asword. I will give my soul. I will dive to hell in hopes of one day rising to freedom. I willsacri�ce. And I will grow my legend and spread it amongst the peoples of all the worldsuntil I am �t to lead the armies that will break the chains of bondage, because I am notsimply an agent of the Sons of Ares. I am not simply a tactic or a device in Ares’sschemes. I am the hope of my people. Of all people in bondage.

Hazel blue anemone in a little SeaSide cave...drawing currents from the sea turquoise blue on sparkling waves. In ocean dreams, the poet waits by his grotto, passing days. Rhyming verse, his mind creates where his smiling Sea Nymph plays. The lapping seas of emerald green stir the poet's fantasy neath crystal skies aquamarine and cotton clouds that drift so free... Ageless are the diamond sands that stretch across this heaven shore... With quill in hand, this poet stands by Neptune's realm forevemore...

The Mind The mind is a hotel with a thousand rooms. When I tilt my head a certain way, I think about certain things. When I tilt my head another way, I think about other things. If I sleep on the right side of my face, for example, I’d dream of a pale rose, the future, or a continental diner in Passaic, New Jersey. When I sleep on the left side of my face, I’d dream that a hand is squeezing my heart, that I’m in prison, or that I’m watching hockey at an airport bar, about to miss a flight.

إحلم لأقصى مدى فليس هناك حد للأحلام.. احلم لأرفع مكان.. احلم بأروع إنسان.. احلم وأطلق العنان..

Here and there and not just in books we catch glimpses of a world of once upon a time and they lived happily ever after, of a world where there is a wizard to give courage and a heart, an angel with a white stone that has written on it our true and secret name, and it is so easy to dismiss it all that it is hardly worth bothering to do. ... But if the world of the fairy tale and our glimpses of it here and there are only a dream, they are one of the most haunting and powerful dreams that the world has ever dreamed...

I tried to concentrate on the angel's voice instead."Bella, please! Bella, listen to me, please, please, please, Bella, please!" he begged.Yes, I wanted to say. Anything. But I couldn't find my lips. "Carlisle!" the angel called, agony in his perfect voice. "Bella, Bella, no, oh please, no, no!" And the angel was sobbing tearless, broken sobs.The angel shouldn't weep, it was wrong. I tried to find him, to tell him everything was fine, but the water was so deep, it was pressing on me, and I couldn't breathe.

I've been in darkness nearly all my life, and you brought light into my existance for the first time. And maybe that's why I started to... have feeling for you. You seemed like a dream. [...] But that's just infatuation. Hero worship. It's not real. I've learned a lot about love in these last months. Abd part of what I've learned is you have to want someone for who they are, not who you want them to be. You have to love a real person, not some dream in your head. Neither of us could have lived that way.

His sisters -- my aunts -- did not go to school at all, just like millions of girls in my country. Education had been a great gift for him. He believed that lack of education was the root of all of Pakistan's problems. Ignorance allowed politicians to fool people and bad administrators to be re-elected. He believed schooling should be available for all, rich and poor, boys and girls. The school that my father dreamed of would have desks and a library, computers, bright posters on the walls and, most important, washrooms.

Just as I had done, my father sleeps off and on for days. Sometimes I sit by the bed in Marta's house and stare at him until I feel like it isn't a dream anymore. Sometimes Jimmi joins me and sometimes, when I'm alone I weep and I am not sure why. Maybe it's because of everything I had been through to get to this point or maybe it was for everything I had lost. Part of me thinks that I should be glad for all of the things I had gained.But the hero doesn't get the reward. The hero pays the price. As it is in every story.

That night my mother had what she considered a wonderful dream. She dreamed of the country of India, where she had never been. There were orange traffic cones and beautiful lapis lazuli insects with mandibles of gold. A young girl was being led through the streets. She was taken to a pyre where she was wound in a sheet and placed up on a platform built from sticks. The bright fire that consumed her brought my mother into that deep, light, dreamlike bliss. The girl was being burned alive, but, first, there had been her body, clean and whole.

Note for a moment do I take you for a truth that is real,' Ivan exclaimed in what even amounted to fury. 'You are a falsehood, you are my illness, you are a ghost. Only I do not know how to destroy you, and perceive that for a certain time I must suffer you. You are a hallucination I am having. You are the embodiment of myself, but only of one side of me ... of my thoughts and emotions, though only those that are most loathsome and stupid. In that regard you might even be of interest to me, if only I had time to throw away on you ...

…but he realized he would never reconcile himself to life as something other than a prelude. What’s life’s meaning then? What is it? What does make the world go round, not letting hope die? What do people dream about, watching the endless flow of years? They dream. A dream, that’s it. We live for our only dream, which can lead us, hand in hand, through our life; for the dream we reconcile ourselves to any frustrations and we shall struggle for releasing its silky wings from the net of reality. (The right to a mistake.)

It seems to me I am trying to tell you a dream--making a vain attempt, because no relation of a dream can convey the dream-sensation, that commingling of absurdity, surprise, and bewilderment in a tremor of struggling revolt, that notion of being captured by the incredible which is of the very essence of dreams...No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one's existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream-alone...

I Have a Dream... someday my son, Zyon and ALL individuals with disabilities will be seen as HUMAN beings. I Have a Dream... someday the human & civil rights of individuals with disabilities are honored and they are treated as equals. I Have a Dream... someday ALL parents who have children with disabilities see their child as a blessing and not a burden. I Have a Dream... someday there will be more jobs and opportunities for individuals with disabilities. I Have a Dream... someday there will be UNITY "within" the disabled community.I HAVE A DREAM!!!

Her endeavor was misguided and wrong and maybe plain crazy, akin to someone waking up one day and deciding he’s going to scale Kilimanjaro because he can’t stop imagining the view from the top, the picture so arresting and beautiful that it too soon delivers him to a precarious ledge, where he can no longer turn back. And while it’s easy to say this is a situation to be avoided, isn’t this what we also fear and crave simultaneously, that some internal force which defies understanding might remake us into the people we dream we are?