Dreams. I have so many. I know that my long list of dreams is not grounded in reality. Yet I dream on.

I dream of my own upscale apartment in downtown Manhattan, decorated in a simple yet modern style. Reality tells me that few people are able to afford nice housing in Manhattan.

I dream of having a tame cheetah. Reality tells me that it is illegal to own such an animal.

I dream of traveling everywhere...the Amazon, New Zealand, Antarctica, the moon... Reality tells me that I may never see any of these places, and certainly not all of them.

I dream of seeing the Packers win the Superbowl. Reality tells me that it’s been a long time since they were any good.

I dream of running barefoot on the beach at midnight, enjoying the moonlight. Reality tells me that the beaches here close at night.

I dream of walking a black Great Dane in Central Park. Reality tells me that Great Danes are big dogs, and would be very hard to keep in the middle of a city.

I dream of meeting and conversing with so many famous people, just to find out what they are really like. Reality tells me that I will never move in the same circles as these people.

I dream of being a best-selling author. Reality tells me that me that, with all the competition in the publishing world, it is doubtful that I will ever be a published author, much less a best-selling one.

I dream of building a house in the elegant style of a Japanese temple, surrounded by a large, peaceful, tree-filled garden. Reality tells me that, one, I don’t particularly want to leave the city, and there is no room for such a building here; and two, it is highly improbable that I will ever have the resources to complete an architectural project like that.

I dream of meeting (pardon the clichè) a tall, dark, handsome stranger while walking my Great Dane, and finding out that the stranger is a funny, intelligent, hard-working Christian who wants to get to know me better. Reality tells me that the guy I meet on the street is probably not going to be a Christian.

I dream of playing my favorite Brahms rhapsody in front of a thousand people who would appreciate how expressive and dramatic the piece is. Reality tells me that although I am a decent pianist, I am not a great one, and I am certainly not on the concert pianist level.

I know that very few, if any, of my dreams will ever be fulfilled. My dreams may be foolish. They may be unrealistic. They may be set too high. But they give me something to strive for, something to aim at. I need them. And dreams do come true. Not always, and not for everyone, but dreams come true every day. Is it too much to hope that some of my dreams may come true for me?