If our dreams were more regular, more connected, more stable

The words of Ernst Mach, both philosopher and physicist, shimmer with quiet insight into the mysterious realms of thought and perception: “If our dreams were more regular, more connected, more stable, they would also have more practical importance for us.” These words, though simple in form, unfold like an ancient riddle about the relationship between chaos and order, imagination and reason. Mach, whose studies of sensation, motion, and the nature of consciousness bridged science and philosophy, speaks here not only of dreams in sleep, but of the dreams of the mind — the visions, ideas, and intuitions that shape human creativity. He reminds us that though dreams are wild and fleeting, if they could be ordered — made coherent and steady — they might become instruments of discovery, as powerful as reason itself.

To understand the origin of this thought, one must know something of Mach’s life and work. A man of intellect and introspection, he sought to understand how humans perceive reality — how the senses and the mind together create the world we experience. He believed that all knowledge is born in sensation, and that even our most rational systems begin as fleeting impressions. In this light, his quote reveals a profound truth: our dreams are the seeds of our intellect, but they wither before they can root. They are glimpses of infinite possibility, but because they lack stability, they slip from our grasp at dawn. If only our minds could bring coherence to these visions — if only the dream’s fire could burn without consuming itself — we might awaken each morning with truths that could shape science, art, and philosophy alike.

Mach’s insight reaches back to the ancient world, where dreams were considered portals to divine wisdom. The Egyptians sought messages from their gods in sleep; the Greeks built temples of incubation, where pilgrims would slumber to receive healing visions. Even the philosopher Aristotle pondered the meaning of dreams, wondering whether they were random echoes of waking life or glimpses into the workings of nature. Yet Mach, standing at the dawn of modern thought, turned this spiritual tradition into a scientific meditation. He did not ask whether dreams were divine, but whether they might be useful — whether the mind, if disciplined, could bridge the gap between the unconscious and the waking world. His longing is the eternal human desire to bring order to chaos, to make sense of the unknowable.

There is a story that echoes this truth — the story of Dmitri Mendeleev, the chemist who dreamed the periodic table. For years, he wrestled with the problem of organizing the elements, their properties and relationships. One night, exhausted, he fell asleep at his desk. In his dream, he saw the elements laid out before him in perfect order, like soldiers in formation. He awoke, wrote down what he had seen, and the pattern held true. Yet such moments are rare, for dreams are unruly visitors; they appear and vanish like mist. Mach’s words illuminate this paradox: if our dreams were “more regular, more connected, more stable,” we might all awaken as Mendeleev did — not with confusion, but with revelation.

But there is also something profoundly human in Mach’s recognition that dreams are unreliable, and that perhaps this is part of their beauty. Dreams mirror the nature of thought itself — half chaos, half order; half reason, half emotion. If they were fully rational, they would cease to be dreams and become something colder, more mechanical. Thus, there is a tension in Mach’s reflection: he admires the potential of the dreaming mind, but he also mourns its instability. The ancients would say this is the eternal dance between Apollo and Dionysus — between the god of reason and the god of ecstasy. True creation, they taught, comes not from one or the other, but from their union — from the dream made lucid, from the vision made real.

The deeper wisdom of Mach’s quote is this: discipline must meet imagination. The dreamer who never wakes remains lost in illusion; the rationalist who never dreams becomes blind to beauty. It is only when we bring order to inspiration that it gains form and power. Every invention, every poem, every work of art began first as a dream — a flash of intuition, a shadow of a thought — that was then shaped by patience and labor. The wise know that to make dreams “regular” and “connected” is the work of a lifetime. The mind must be trained to translate chaos into clarity, just as the sculptor carves from the rough marble the form that already waits within.

Thus, the lesson of Ernst Mach’s words is both humble and exalted: honor your dreams, but do not let them drift unanchored. Record them, reflect upon them, connect them to your waking life. For the visions of the night are fragments of the deeper self — sparks from the forge of creativity. To make them practical, one must give them structure; to make them eternal, one must bind them to purpose. Do not dismiss them as nonsense, nor worship them as prophecy. Instead, treat them as the whispers of potential — the voice of your own mind speaking in a language not yet mastered.

So, dear listener, remember this: your dreams are not mere shadows; they are the blueprints of what your soul is capable of building. Do not wait for them to become “regular” on their own — make them so through discipline, attention, and reflection. Let your imagination be wild, but let your reason guide it. For if you can learn, as Mach teaches, to make your dreams connected and stable, then what was once fleeting may become lasting, and what was once illusion may become truth. In this union of dream and order lies the secret of all creation — the bridge between what we imagine and what we become.