In my favorite dream, everyone is so delightful.

No one's mean or spiteful, in my favorite dream.

Yes and in my favorite dream, there my heart can go romancing,

dancing to a heavenly thing.

But there's something else I look forward to.

It's a secret, but here's a clue.

He's my favorite you know who.

You're the hero of my most favorite dream.

-"Fun and Fancy Free", 1963

I don't dream often. Perhaps I remember one dream every few years. But when I do dream, it's something magnificent. Even with that standard of grandeur in mind, I just had what is undeniably my most favorite dream.

In my favorite dream, I'm sitting in bleachers, which are moderately sparsely populated. I'm not sure why I'm there, or what I'm doing. There are people sitting next to me, fairly close, but I don't see them—at least, not well enough to identify them. They're best described as tangible shadows.

My dreams, strangely enough, frequently start with me sitting in bleachers of some sort. Not sure why this is, since I rarely, if ever, go to sporting events. I used to have a friend who enjoyed interpreting dreams—I wonder what she'd make of it. But no matter.

In my favorite dream, I'm watching something unfold below me, when movement to the left in front of me briefly catches my eye. It's a man. No—more than a man. For all I know, the shadows next to me are men. But this man---he's not a shadow. He's a person.

For some reason, I don't think is very important—at least, not as important as the indefinable grandstand-worthy event that is happening below me. I don't pay him much mind.

Silly me.

He walks up towards me, and kneels in front of me, beaming. He reaches out to me, though I can't exactly remember how. It's an invitation of sorts, to come with him. But I don't really notice that. I just notice his eyes.

He stares into my eyes, with eyes I've never seen before—not in real life, not in dreams, not anywhere. In fact, he resembles no one I've ever met, and his countenance goes against all my shallow superficial preferences. Yet his gaze, coupled with his unnervingly disarming smile, make my heart stop. I can't break my eyes from him.

His eyes tell me a story—not a long one, nor a complicated one. It's so simple, that it's hard to describe. If I had to put it in words, I'd have to say that his eyes whispered, "I found you." It was as if he'd been looking for someone his entire life, searching high and low, and never finding her—until he saw me. He looked at me as if he was sure that I embodied of all his hopes, dreams, and wishes—no, as if he'd just discovered a treasure beyond all material worth—no, as if he'd just found something incredibly important to him that he'd been searching for for a long time.

And that something was me.

He was beaming. He showed no trepidation, no bravado, no lust, no smirking. Just his eyes, his genuinely elated smile, and an unspoken invitation. He had just found the perfect woman-and he'd found her in me.

I can't even begin to explain how that made me feel. To be wanted—no, to be needed like that, to be looked upon as the embodiment of someone's ideal, and not feel the pressure to be someone you're not—it's amazing. It feels like your heart is rising out of your chest, and at the same time, being pulled back in utter shock and disbelief. You hold your breath, wondering if it's real, wondering if he's got the wrong girl, but getting all the reassurance that you need from his eyes.

You know nothing about him, but you don't need to. You don't know the sound of his voice, you don't know the feel of his hand. You don't know where he's from, who he is, why he's here, or how he found you. But you don't need to.

His eyes, his unfamiliar, yet warm and comforting eyes, tell you all you need to know.

The dream ends there, as far as I know. It possibly might be the shortest, most uneventful dream I've ever had.

It's my most favorite dream.