Rebels 4-Ever

I wonder why we're capable of dreaming. If maybe it's just painful to do it. Maybe we should just settle in for what we got at hand and ignore the rest. But we never do. We're never satisfied. In our minds and hearts we're always someplace else, somewhere better.
Is this what's real? Or are the dream worlds that we create the real ones, and this is just a fictional dimension? Can I know that I'm feeling pain? Why do I? Why don't we all just drug ourselves until we feel nothing more, until we don't have to think.
The fact that it's possible to create entire universes that we've never been in, make up people that never existed... does that mean we have a good imagination? Or do we just channel something that is printed into us already, and describe places and people we once somehow knew?
I can't go for the fact that all glimpses of imaginary places are makebelieve. Some have to make some kind of sense. They have to come from somewhere. Maybe we're more complicated now than we used to be. Now we get messages streamed into our subconscious every waking hour of the day. We've seen images move on screens since we were small, and unable to sort it. Maybe everything we create holds fragments of things that have been stored inside our brains for later use. Or maybe among them there are some debris and scattered evidence of something that we couldn't possibly have known, or seen, anywhere.
It just doesn't seem possible otherwise. I wonder how otherwise the dark man that appears in the introductory chapter of my novel turns out to be a character I didn't invent until 70 pages later. Does that just happen by itself? I'm amazed how the details are coming out. I thought the writers with all the little threads tying together in the end had to sit for hours and plot how to make it all add up, drawing little schedules and whatever.
And what about drawing?
I drew a painting that was supposed to depict what I felt, inside. It became a very strange painting. It had one eye in the middle surrounded by sharp knives and thunder. The eye was red and the rest grey, and here and there ink blotches made on purpose in coal black. And underneath there were bloody letters that read "Rebels 4-ever" after one of my wristbands. It's very weird to look at but when I drew it I just knew that it stood for what I felt. It was the inner parts of me at that moment. Hmmm. How does that come through? How does a feeling and a mood automatically turn into symbolism and color when it's channeled to paper?
I don't understand creativity at all, and especially not the kind that drives me crazy, and makes me weird, but I'm in love with it, nevertheless. Without I'd have no reason to hang around here. That's what it feels like, anyway, although I know you guys would miss me awfully, ha, ha.
POET in the PONDERING JAR
Philsopher
Poet
Heart