It's only a dream, but a good dream... the movie must have been good, I've seen it a thousand times.

I was forced to endure a vaseline view. Why would my own dream make me watch a movie through a vaseline lens?

I normally wake-up puzzled, yet happy. "I must have enjoyed the movie" is my go-to assumption.

I certainly can't afford a psychiatrist to explain my dreams, so I'm left to assume. And you and me know where that leaves my ass.

An art deco theater with faux stars in the ceiling, possibly an old vaudeville stage... I love those theaters, but why would I care what theater I was in?

Was my dream about the theater or the movie?

I found myself stressed every time an emotional response was due.  

The tension strangled me.

Maybe that's why my vision was blurred?

I must have been in the balcony, I'm always looking down on the crowd and the glittering silver screen.

Why did it always feel like this was the first time I'd seen the movie?

Why did I wake-up so happy from so frustrating an endeavor?

The movie was always vaguely familiar, yet just beyond recognition.

I was thrilled with the audience reactions, yet feared the next reaction.

Why would I care about what others thought about a movie I loved?

The ending is always the same: The movie, that seemed restrained throughout, blasts off on a roller-coaster ride to an ending that ends in the big fade to black.

The silence of space.

Not one person moves or claps or cheers.

I cry...

This, does not add-up.

Am I the only one that likes this movie?

I see tears, people sniffling, they're pulling-it-together.

An eternity passes.

Finally, an audience member leaps to his feet and voices his opinion: Fuck yeah!

Clapping, I hear clapping.

From a single clap to a, seemingly, unanimous clap and standing ovation.

Here's where things get weirder: I feel proud of my children.

Why weirder, why weirder?

I don't have any children of my own (but I am damn proud of the children I inherited).

From my balcony viewpoint I watch a man cry.

How could he be crying when everyone else is applauding?

All of this made no sense... until I realized I wasn't in the balcony.

This man cried through the entire movie, his tears gleaming in the magical light.

I was happy he was crying.

I'm not normally happy when people suffer.

The suffering Man is always vaguely familiar, I always wish him the best.

Past, present and future meld together.

The dream is sure to come again.

The tears were tears of joy, his tears were mine.

He was, is, and shall always be me.

The dream was my dream.

I wasn't in the balcony and it wasn't vaseline on the lens clouding my vision...

They were tears of joy, celebrating a shared view of the world.

One of my children had made the world a little happier than it was, if only for a moment.

The only children I have are my stories.

They're just words, but they allowed people to escape their mundane lives in the darkness. They suspended disbelief and, for a moment, believed in my words.

My words provided a glimmering sliver of hope, hope for a better world.

The dream made sense now, it didn't all the times before... it may not in the times to come.

This too shall come to pass, as dreams seem to do.

It's only a dream, but a good dream...