In dreams, I am simultaneously a medieval knight, a particle physicist, and my own grandmother, ruling over landscapes that shift from desert to ocean to childhood bedroom without explanation or apology. The democracy of dreams recognizes no impossible candidacies, enforces no consistent laws, maintains no permanent geography.
Dreams are the only anarchist state where all citizens are equal—equally free to defy gravity, time, identity, and logic. The shyest person commands audiences, the weakest lifts mountains, the poorest owns castles. Status means nothing, credentials are irrelevant, experience is fluid.
This democracy operates without elections or hierarchy. You don’t earn the right to fly—you simply fly. You don’t apply for the position of hero—you discover you’ve always been one. You don’t petition for magical powers—they emerge when needed, disappear when the scene changes.
The strange thing is how natural this impossibility feels within the dream. There’s no surprise at being able to breathe underwater, no confusion about being in two places simultaneously, no questioning the logic of doors that lead to other centuries. In dreams, we accept the impossible as inevitable.
Maybe dreams are democracy perfected—not the messy compromise of waking politics but pure possibility without limitation. A realm where “because I want to” is sufficient justification for any transformation, where imagination writes all the laws, where anything you can conceive becomes immediately available.
