The Story Of A Dream

Having a dream and living with passion is very important because I believe living without passion is like being dead. Someone like Tony Hawk could agree. Tony Hawk has been a professional skateboarder for over 24 years. However, he did not receive that title overnight; Tony got his first skateboard when he was only 9 years old. Since then, Tony worked extremely hard and put a lot of his focus on skateboarding. He did it because that was his Dream. Tony’s Dream was frowned upon by many of his teachers and adults alike. One of his teachers even told him that he “would never make it in the workplace if he didn’t follow directions exactly” (Hawk), but he never gave up his Dream. He kept working hard and eventually became a pro at the young age of 15.

I found the reading "The Symbolic Language of Dreams", written by Stephens King, a very interesting story to write about. King stated a quote in his introduction saying that dreams are a useful way that help people find the nature of their problems; or, find answers to their problems in a symbolic way. The purpose of this essay is to show that dreams and imaginations were two main factors in King 's successful life. Hence, dreams and imaginations are critical factors when writing; they sure can resolve many issues and expand our thoughts in order to write better and longer books. Without passion writing good books is impossible.

He blinks; he has to swallow back tears. The parlor looks the same as it always has: two cribs beneath two Latin crosses, dust floating in the open mouth of the stove, a dozen layers of paint peeling off the baseboards. A needlepoint of Frau Elena’s snowy Alsatian village above the sink. Yet now there is music. As if, inside Werner’s head, an infinitesimal orchestra has stirred to life”(33).

As the wind brushed the back of my dress, I turned around to overlook the waves of golden ocean, pouring into the small town I called home. But, my eyes became fixed on the sun. It was so wonderful, so beautiful as it rose out of its slumber in the mountains. I always felt the sun’s warmth on my cloudy white dress, and I loved how it always felt like my father’s hugs.

What Dreams May Come is a movie about life, loss, death, afterlife and rebirth. The film explores the emotions evoked by a variety of characters when they are faced with coping with tragedy and death. It also delves into the manifestations of heaven and the variety of forms heaven takes in the minds of different people.

Was I standing awkwardly? Oh man, here it comes.” As I looked out to all the expectant faces, I began to say a little prayer to God. I knew that I wouldn't be able to start playing the song with the sentiment, passion, and affection that I wanted it to sound like. In that moment, I felt a rush of emotion; a feeling of confidence. With a nervous smile, I put my violin on my shoulder and the bow on my violin. Giving a nod to the pianist, I started to play. I realized a part of myself that I never knew; where my words couldn't describe, my violin sang. Finishing my song and seeing the knowing smiles of people being touched by the music, a wave of accomplishment settled in. Knowing that I could share something so beautiful made up for all of the long hours in the practice

A Dream in Doubt A Dream in Doubt, a documentary directed by Tami Yeager, it records an immigrant story of survival in a world in which patriotism has morphed into violence. The film follows Rana Singh Sodhi, an Indian immigrant whose life is dramatically changed by the 9/11 terror attacks. His turban and beard, articles of Sikh faith, these signature Sikhs features symbolize the face of America’s new enemy. Some radicals view themselves as proud defenders of America, therefore they regard many innocent Sikhs as their revenge target for releasing their hostility.

Thesis Statement: Dreams are successions of images, emotions, and sensations that occur subconsciously during sleep.

The lifeless light bulbs slowly swayed from the ceiling as I peered down the dim hallway. There it was. The window. The window that always framed the most picture perfect family. Outside, were the children with the most infectious smiles, skipping and dancing down their street. Their parents, beside them were both watching them hand in hand laughing and singing along. They seemed to be filled with for their two beloved children. My eyes followed their footsteps and my teeth clenched as I watched them - I hated it. “Not everyone is as lucky as you”, I muttered under my breath. I continued to watch them until

It is a big, airy room, the whole floor nearly, with windows that look all ways, and air and sunshine galore. It was nursery first and then playroom and gymnasium, I should judge; for the windows are barred for little children, and there are rings and things in the walls...[The paint and paper] is stripped off--the paper--in great patches all around the head of my bed...I never saw a worse paper in my life...The color is repellent, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow...” (Gilman 845).

As the perspiration beaded on my forehead and dripped down my face, the heat bounced back off the streets causing a tactical illusion that the temperature outside seemed to be increasing with each heartbeat. As my parents walked towards the what seemed to be the endless walkway, Myla and I followed. I could hear Myla pant as her tongue swung from side to side in effort to keep cool. “Are we there, yet?” I asked my parents with an agonizing tone. “We are!” they responded quickly. With those two words, my 10-year-old eyes, enlarged in order to catch a glimpse of what I had waited for all

As soon as her fingers brushed the keys, I recognized the piece as the first movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique. Ally was a tempest: like gusts of wind, her hands flew violently across the grand as waves of thunder rolled from its open lid. Perhaps it was a few stray strikes of lightning that dropped my jaw when she played. I closed my eyes and felt my body fill with the warmth of her music. Suddenly, the rolling waves of thunder hit a wall, the warmth drained from my body, and my eyes flashed open. Ally was frozen in place. With hesitance she rose from her seat, apologized to her audience, and started the piece again with the use of her sheet music. Her second rendition of Pathetique was played with eloquence and grace. Its final chord reverberated through my body for the few minutes of silence after the performance and clung onto me for weeks to follow. Her error only made me respect her more as I then understood that my idol was, like me,

In the novel, Waiting for the Barbarians by J.M Coetzee, the magistrate’s progressive, non-linear dreams are a parallel to his growing involvement with the barbarians and his growing distaste for the empire. The great psychoanalyst, Sigmund Freud said, “The interpretation of dreams is the royal road to a knowledge of the unconscious.” In every dream there is a hidden meaning and when the reader starts analyzing the magistrate’s dreams he reveals that he is oddly attracted to the barbarians and knows he should not get involved and it will be a trial to get close to them.

I jolted awake in fear. I had a dream. A weird dream. A vivid dream. It was full of people shouting and bright flashes of light. It was confusing yet clear, like some part of me understood it. I didn’t know it would be important then but now I know. How? Well, it happened like this…

Touched by fading moonlight, the girl looked pale as a ghost, distressed and sorrowful. Great drops fell from her eyes; the heavy rain clouds in her mind let loose their turbulent nature. She felt the muscle of her chin trembled like a small child, again, she looked toward the window as if the darkness outside could soothe her. However, she tried to keep her sobbing down by biting her lips, afraid the woman would “visit” again. Meanwhile, in the hallway, there was only deadly silence, creating an overwhelming sense of emptiness.