Not a Winter Blanket

Sometimes we stretch words thin– one word for many things, each distinct when you sit back and look. Like a worn-thin twin straining to cover a full: dream. What do you dream of? Do you dream in color? This is no time for dreaming. What could you mean with this one noun/verb? What does it say that we stretch it so thin? The Sapir-Whorf hypothesis is flawed, yes (language is not a cage to thought, though it certainly trims thought’s hedges), but I can’t help to wonder if it says anything at all about a culture entire to leave such vast boundaries fuzzy, to heap so much work upon a word that totters between meanings under the weight of it. To dream is one of the things that makes us human– but which dreaming? That of REM sleep? That of staring off out windows during dull school days? That of active hope? That of wistful imaginings? That of sturdy goals? That of strong-held ideals? Dream with me, then, of words held lightly catching meanings like fish.

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