a mornings thoughts

I am a very organized person. I have a filing system in my head for just about everything. The way I hang clothes in my closet - 1st by type 2nd by color 3rd by how often it gets used. My books - 1st by genre, 2nd by how well I like them, 3rd by size. My papers are filed away carefully in my desk, each sorted by type, labeled, and set in its own plastic file. My shoes are organized by purpose and usefulness. In my fridge you will find bottles and jars arranged by content, height, and taste.
I'm not anal about it. Sometimes two or three pairs of shoe sit on my floor for a few days, but when I put them away, they have a place. My laundry perpetually sits for a week or more before being filed away in the dresser - 1. collared shirts 2. collared work shirts 3. nice tee shirts 4. comfortable tee shirts 5. ugly tee shirts 6. work shirts 7. pajama shirts, etc. Piles of books sit on my bed-side table, but will eventually return to the correct themed shelf, of the specific genre bookcase.
It's good to be organized, "A place for everything and everything in it's place." and all. But when you think organized sometimes it can go to far. I find myself lying in bed at night, dreaming of the future, or the past or the present. of life in a parallel universe, or life simply as a different person. I have lots of dreams. Some, that I wish fervently would come true. Some, that I dream up only to entertain myself. But lately, I find myself lying in bed, thinking of my dreams, and the more I think the more I realize that I am filing my dreams.
I have such categories as, Pipe Dreams - those things you wanted as a child or young person that will never really happen. Fake Dreams - the dreams you dream up to pretend your life isn't so boring. Realistic Dreams - the grown up, smart-money dreams. I make list of the things I dream of doing with my life, then I cross off items not on completion, but with little notes next to them such as "not a viable means of making a living" "parents would freak out" " not capable".
I dream and I shoot my own dreams down and they die in the dust at my feet. Then I pick them up and file them away.
I don't know what your suppose to do with all the dreams in your head or your heart. But I know that when you start labeling and dissecting them, they become nothing more than a corpse in a biology lab. And when you file them away, they smother and die.