Live And Dream

Neil Gaiman writes of Morpheus or Oneiros, the Sandman, or Dream and how he resides and presides in all the fantastic little worlds we concoct in our heads. The tall, enigmatic and eclectic figure has become a favourite of mine since a few good friends of mine so brilliantly concluded that I deserved the pleasure of the first four books of the library.

Everyone has their own dreams, desires, delights and despairs. Not everyone will have theirs come true; indeed few truly do. It is said that the pursuit of the dream, or maybe the essence of the dream itself, something intangibly and utterfly wonderful that is just beyond reach, can be more rewarding than any actual reality, however it may coincide with what the dreamer may have originally, well, dreamt of.

When I'm driving alone on the highway, watching the shrubbery whizz by a few feet from my shoulder, I tend to break into song if a particularly cooperative track plays on the radio. Yes, you read right. Naz sings. Only when he's alone, though. Don't get your hopes up. No. No. Not even for two bucks.

No.

Others have their own dreams or fantasies. I know of a couple of school-mates who envision themselves as suave and cool secret agents, kicking in doors of empty classrooms and brandishing fist-pistols at imaginary shadow enemies while one or two bewildered girls walk on beside them. Then they glance up and realise that yes, every classroom does indeed have at least one security camera, and their antics have been immortalised in digital form.

Some use the medium of photography to weave a tale of intrigue or bright lights, snapping pictures of themselves in poses and expressions more suited for morgues or Halloween rags. A few others simply see themselves as celebrities and papparazzi at the same time, unable to resist the urge to shoot themselves (with a camera) at any given opportunity.

A wise woman once said, "I don't get it."

Now, I know what you're thinking; wise people usually get it, but I wasn't done yet.

"I don't get it. Everyone here goes to pieces about how hot or sexy Beyonce or J-Lo are, but then they strive to look like Nicole Ritchie."

Alright. First thing's first.

1. Jessica Alba
2. Scarlett Johansson
3. ...
4. ...
....
N. Nicole Ritchie
N+1. Rosie O' Donnell

That's the official hottness list, summarised by yours truly. Angelina Jolie is one of the ladies duking it out for third and fourth. And the list doesn't include the lucky ones who've been with me.

Back to business, the wise woman mentioned before also went on to talk about cats, marriage, shopping and cars, though I have prudently decided that you can, in fact, have too much of a good thing.

A girl I know in school half-shrieked in a lecture recently, "You think I'm FAT?!?!?"

This, from a waif in Prada or Gucci, who looks like the weight of her assorted riches might unbalance her easily.

It's just weird. And yes, I don't get it. How and why some actually rationalize the idea that a walking skeleton with a painted face and perky, err, humps, can be remotely considered umm... humpable.

Of course, neither do I get why half the world is fascinated with Beyonce and J-Lo's monolithic prosteriors or the absence of undergarments on a formerly-bald teeny-bopper or a hotel heiress' bedroom antics. Maybe it's just me.

Or maybe, just maybe, those members of the XX population that I have discreetly pointed at can rethink their remodelling campaigns.

Jessica Alba >>>>> All.

Except Khadi!